Each year shall give this apple-tree A broader flush of roseate bloom, A deeper maze of verdurous gloom, And loosen, when the frost-clouds lower, The crisp brown leaves in thicker shower. The years shall come and pass, but we Shall hear no longer, where we lie, 'The summer's songs, the autumn's sigh, In the boughs of the apple-tree. And time shall waste this apple-tree. Who planted this old apple-tree?' The gray-haired man shall answer them: 'A poet of the land was he, 61 70 Born in the rude but good old times; "T is said he made some quaint old rhymes, On planting the apple-tree.'1 1849. ROBERT OF LINCOLN 81 1864. MERRILY Swinging on brier and weed, Snug and safe is that nest of ours, 1 Compare a letter of Bryant's written November 17, 1846 (Godwin's Life of Bryant, vol. ii, pp. 27, 28): I have been, and am, at my place on Long Island, planting and transplanting trees, in the mist; sixty or seventy; some for shade; most for fruit. Hereafter, men, whose existence is at present merely possible, will gather pears from the trees which I have set in the ground, and wonder what old covey-for in those days the slang terms of the present time, by the ordinary process of change in languages, will have become classical-what old covey of past ages planted them? Or they will walk in the shade of the mulberry, apricot, and cherry trees that I have set in a row beside a green lane, and think, if they think at all about the matter -for who can tell what the great-grandchildren of ours will think about that they sprang up of themselves by the way.' The whirlwind, stand in her defence; 3< The blast as soon shall move the rock As rushing squadrons bear ye thence. And ye whose homes are by her grand Swift rivers, rising far away, Come from the depth of her green land, As mighty in your march as they; As terrible as when the rains Have swelled them over bank and bourne, With sudden floods to drown the plains And sweep along the woods uptorn. And ye who throng, beside the deep, On his long-murmuring marge of sand 40 Skipping and dancing on the frozen peaks, And moulding little snow-balls in their palmis, And rolling them, to crush her flowers below, Down the steep snow-fields. Alice. 88 That, too, must have been A merry sight to look at. Uncle John. You are right, But I must speak of graver matters now. Midwinter was the time, and Eva stood, Within the cottage, all prepared to dare The outer cold, with ample furry robe Close-belted round her waist, and boots of fur, And a broad kerchief, which her mother's hand Had closely drawn about her ruddy cheek. Now, stay not long abroad,' said the good dame, 'For sharp is the outer air, and, mark me well, 100 Go not upon the snow beyond the spot Where the great linden bounds the neighboring field.' The little maiden promised, and went forth, And climbed the rounded snow-swells firm with frost Beneath her feet, and slid, with balancing Counselled thee thus because thou hadst no guide.' By such smooth words was Eva won to break Her promise, and went on with her new friend, Over the glistening snow and down a bank Where a white shelf, wrought by the eddy Like to a billow's crest in the great sea, Curtained an opening. 'Look, we enter here.' And straight, beneath the fair o'erhanging fold, Entered the little pair that hill of snow, Walking along a passage with white walls, And a white vault above where snow-stars shed A wintry twilight. Eva moved in awe, And held her peace, but the snow-maiden smiled, And talked and tripped along, as down the way, Deeper they went into that mountainous drift. 150 And now the white walls widened, and the vault Swelled upward, like some vast cathedraldome, Such as the Florentine, who bore the name |