In the cold, moist earth we laid her, when the forest cast the leaf, And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief: Yet not unmeet was it that one like that young friend of ours, So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. RALPH WALDO EMERSON AMERICA, 1803-1882 5 'Twas one of the charméd days It may blow north, it still is warm; 10 Or south, it still is clear; Or east, it smells like a clover-farm; The musing peasant lowly great 15 The rope-like pine roots crosswise grown The wide lake, edged with sand and grass, Painted with green and proud WOODNOTES Of the tree and of the cloud. He was the heart of all the scene; To hill and cloud his face was known,- 77 5 Through thick-stemmed woodlands rough and wide. 10 I found the water's bed. The watercourses were my guide; I traveled grateful by their side, They led me through the thicket damp, The foodful waters fed me, And brought me to the lowest land, The moss upon the forest bark Was pole-star when the night was dark; To such as trust her faithfulness. 15 20 20 25 25 When the forest shall mislead me, 5 Then will yet my mother yield -From WOODNOTES." 10 15 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW AMERICA, 1807-1882 Daybreak A wind came up out of the sea, And said, "O mists, make room for me." It hailed the ships, and cried, "Sail on, And hurried landward far away, It said unto the forest, "Shout! It touched the wood-bird's folded wing, FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY OF AGASSIZ And o'er the farms, "O chanticleer, It whispered to the fields of corn, It shouted through the belfry-tower, It crossed the churchyard with a sigh, 79 The Fiftieth Birthday of Agassiz It was fifty years ago In the pleasant month of May, A child in its cradle lay. And Nature, the old nurse, took Thy Father has written for thee. "Come, wander with me," she said, "Into regions yet untrod; And read what is still unread 5 10 15 In the manuscripts of God." 20 And he wandered away and away And whenever the way seemed long, She would sing a more wonderful song, So she keeps him still a child, Though at times his heart beats wild Though at times he hears in his dreams. And the rush of mountain streams And the mother at home says, “Hark! It is growing late and dark, And my boy does not return!" |