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And guests in prouder homes shall see, Heaped with the grape of Cintra's vine, And golden orange of the line,

The fruit of the apple tree.

The fruitage of this apple tree
Winds, and our flag of stripe and star,
Shall bear to coasts that lie afar,

Where men shall wonder at the view,
And ask in what fair groves they grew;
And sojourners beyond the sea
Shall think of childhood's careless day,
And long, long hours of summer play,
In the shade of the apple tree.

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. Oh, when its aged branches throw Thin shadows on the ground below, Shall fraud and force and iron will Oppress the weak and helpless still?

What shall the tasks of mercy be,
Amid the toils, the strifes, the tears
Of those who live when length of years
Is wasting this little apple tree?

"Who planted this old apple tree?"
The children of that distant day
Thus to some aged man shall say;
And, gazing on its mossy stem,
The gray-haired man shall answer them.
"A poet of the land was he,

Born in the rude but good old times;
'Tis said he made some quaint old rimes
On planting the apple tree."

SPEAK GENTLY TO THE ERRING

SPEAK

F. G. LEE

PEAK gently to the erring, —ye know not all the power,

With which the dark temptation came, in some unguarded

hour;

Ye may not know how earnestly they struggled, or how

well,

Until the hour of weakness came, and sadly thus they fell.

Speak gently of the erring, — oh, do not thou forget, However darkly stained by sin, he is thy brother yet: Heir of the self-same heritage, child of the self-same God, He hath but stumbled in the path thou hast in weakness. trod.

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Speak kindly to the erring,

- for is it not enough,

That innocence and peace are gone, without thy censure

rough?

It surely is a weary lot, that sin-crushed heart to bear; And they who share a happier fate, their chidings well

may spare.

Speak kindly of the erring, thou yet may'st lead him

back

With holy words, and tones of love, from misery's thorny

track;

Forget not thou hast often sinned, and sinful yet must be; Deal kindly with the erring one, as God hast dealt with thee.

LULLABY FOR TITANIA

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

First Fairy

YOU spotted snakes with double tongue,

You

Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen;

Newts and blind worms, do no wrong,
Come not near our fairy queen.

Chorus

Philomel, with melody

Sing in our sweet lullaby;

Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby!

Never harm,

Nor spell, nor charm,

Come our lovely lady nigh!

So good night, with lullaby.

Second Fairy

Weaving spiders, come not here;

Hence, you long-legg'd spinners, hence; Beetles black, approach not near;

Worm, nor snail, do no offense.

Chorus

Philomel, with melody

Sing in our sweet lullaby;

Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby!

Never harm,

Nor spell nor charm,

Come our lovely lady nigh!

So good night, with lullaby.

ROBERT OF LINCOLN

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT

MERRILY swinging on brier and weed,

Near to the nest of his little dame,

Over the mountain side or mead,

Robert of Lincoln is telling his name:

Bob-o-link, bob-o-link;

Spink, spank, spink;

Snug and safe is that nest of qurs,

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Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed,

Wearing a bright black wedding coat; White are his shoulders and white his crest. Hear him call in his merry note:

Bob-o-link, bob-o-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

Look what a nice new coat is mine,

Sure there was never a bird so fine.
Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife,

Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings,

Passing at home a patient life,

Broods in the grass while her husband sings: —

Bob-o-link, bob-o-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

Brood, kind creature; you need not fear

Thieves and robbers while I am here.
Chee, chee, chee.

Modest and shy as a nun is she;

One weak chirp is her only note. Braggart and prince of braggarts is he, Pouring boasts from his little throat :

Bob-o-link, bob-o-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

Never was I afraid of man;

Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can!
Chee, chee, chee.

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