Are strong with struggling. Power at thee has launched

His bolts, and with his lightnings smitten thee;

They could not quench the life thou hast from heaven;

Merciless Power has dug thy dungeon deep,

And his swart armorers, by a thousand fires,

Have forged thy chain; yet, while he deems thee bound,

The links are shivered, and the prison-walls Fall outward; terribly thou springest forth, As springs the flame above a burning pile, And shoutest to the nations, who return Thy shoutings, while the pale oppressor flies.

31

Thy birthright was not given by human hands:

Thou wert twin-born with man. In pleasant fields,

While yet our race was few, thou sat'st with him,

To tend the quiet flock and watch the stars, And teach the reed to utter simple airs. Thou by his side, amid the tangled wood, Didst war upon the panther and the wolf, His only foes; and thou with him didst draw

The earliest furrow on the mountain-side, Soft with the deluge. Tyranny himself, Thy enemy, although of reverend look, Hoary with many years, and far obeyed, Is later born than thou; and as he meets The grave defiance of thine elder eye, The usurper trembles in his fastnesses.

40

And spring them on thy careless steps, and clap

His withered hands, and from their ambush call

His hordes to fall upon thee. He shall send

Quaint maskers, wearing fair and gallant forms

To catch thy gaze, and uttering graceful words

To charm thy ear; while his sly imps, by stealth,

Twine round thee threads of steel, light thread on thread,

That grow to fetters; or bind down thy

arms

With chains concealed in chaplets. Oh! not yet

Mayst thou unbrace thy corslet, nor lay by

60

Thy sword; nor yet, O Freedom! close thy lids

In slumber; for thine enemy never sleeps, And thou must watch and combat till the

day

For on thy cheeks the glow is spread That tints thy morning hills with red; Thy step the wild-deer's rustling feet Within thy woods are not more fleet; 10 Thy hopeful eye

Is bright as thine own sunny sky.

As, round the sleeping infant's feet, We softly fold the cradle-sheet;

So plant we the apple-tree.

10

What plant we in this 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 sunný lea,

A shadow for the noontide hour,
A shelter from the summer shower,
When we plant the apple-tree.

What plant we in this 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 this apple-tree?
Fruits that shall swell in sunny June,
And redden in the August noon,
And drop, when gentle airs come by,
That fan the blue September sky,

While children come, with cries
glee,
And seek them where the fragrant grass
Betrays their bed to those who pass,
At the foot of the apple-tree.

20

30

of

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,

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,
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 ours,
Hidden among the summer flowers.
Chee, chce, chee.

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.'

Modest and shy as a nun is she;

One weak chirp is her only note. Braggart and prince of braggarts is he, 30 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.

Six white eggs on a bed of hay,
Flecked with purple, a pretty sight!
There as the mother sits all day,
Robert is singing with all his might:
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink;
Nice good wife, that never goes out,
Keeping house while I frolic about.
Chee, chee, chee.

The whirlwind, stand in her defence; 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 bou With sudden floods to drown the plains

And sweep along the woods uptorn.

And ye who throng, beside the deep,

Her ports and hamlets of the strand In number like the waves that leap On his long-murmuring marge of sa Come like that deep, when, o'er his b He rises, all his floods to pour, And flings the proudest barks that sv A helpless wreck, against the shore

Few, few were they whose swords of

Won the fair land in which we dw But we are many, we who hold

The grim resolve to guard it well. Strike, for that broad and goodly la Blow after blow, till men shall se That Might and Right move hand i And glorious must their triumph September, 1861.