Stiffen to stone the yellow-mould,
    Yet safe shall lie the wheat;
  Till, out of heaven’s unmeasured blue,
    Shall walk again the genial year,
  To wake with warmth, and nurse with dew,
    The germs we lay to slumber here. 
  O blessed harvest yet to be! 
    Abide thou with the love that keeps,
  In its warm bosom tenderly,
    The life which wakes, and that which sleeps. 
  The love that leads the willing spheres
  Along the unending track of years,
  And watches o’er the sparrow’s nest,
  Shall brood above thy winter rest,
    And raise thee from the dust, to hold
  Light whisperings with the winds of May;
  And fill thy spikes with living gold,
    From Summer’s yellow ray. 
  Then, as thy garners give thee forth,
  On what glad errands shalt thou go,
  Wherever, o’er the waiting earth,
    Roads wind, and rivers flow! 
  The ancient East shall welcome thee
  To mighty marts beyond the sea;
  And they who dwell where palm-groves sound
  To summer winds the whole year round,
  Shall watch, in gladness, from the shore,
  The sails that bring thy glistening store.

* * * * *

=_343._= THE PLANTING OF THE APPLE-TREE.

  Come, let us plant the apple-tree! 
  Cleave the tough greensward with the spade;
  Wide let its hollow bed be made;
  There gently lay the roots, and there
  Sift the dark mould with kindly care,
    And press it o’er them tenderly,
  As, round the sleeping infant’s feet,
  We softly fold the cradle-sheet: 
    So plant we the apple-tree.

  What plant we in the apple-tree? 
  Buds, which the breath of summer days
  Shall lengthen into leafy sprays;
  Boughs, where the thrush with crimson breast
  Shall haunt and sing and hide her nest. 
    We plant upon the sunny lea
  A shadow for the noontide hour,
  A shelter from the summer shower,
    When we plant the apple-tree.

  What plant we in the apple-tree? 
  Sweets for a hundred flowery springs,
  To load the May-wind’s restless wings,
  When, from the orchard-row, he pours
  Its fragrance through our open doors;
    A world of blossoms for the bee;
  Flowers for the sick girl’s silent room;
  For the glad infant, sprigs of bloom,
    We plant with the apple-tree.

  What plant we in the apple-tree? 
  Fruits that shall swell in sunny June,
  And redden in the August noon,
  And drop as gentle airs come by
  That fan the blue September sky;
    While children, wild with noisy glee,
  Shall scent their fragrance as they pass,
    And search for them the tufted grass
  At the foot of the apple-tree.

  And when above this apple-tree
  The winter stars are quivering bright,
  And winds go howling through the night,
  Girls, whose young eyes o’erflow with mirth,
  Shall peel its fruit by cottage-hearth,
    And guests in prouder homes shall see,
  Heaped with the orange and the grape,
    As fair as they in tint and shape,
  The fruit of the apple-tree.