"THEY ARE FLED."

FIRST joys of summer! where are ye,
And that green tinge ye wore?
The old grey, towering, monastry
Low'rs as it did before;-

The hallow'd tomb, with garlands hung,

In memory of the dead,

Stands where it stood when leaves were young, But they are fled!

Our footsteps climb the dewy hill,
To drink the morning's breath ;-
We gaze upon the blue sky still,

And all the vale beneath.

E'en still the stream sweeps soft along,
Into the broad lake's bed;

And still, awakes our noblest song,
But they are fled!

Lo! where the bending willows, wave
O'er the sod mournfully;

Gone are our friends, and in the grave,
They slumber silently.

Each lingerer on the sear oak bough,
On to their sad bourne led;

And we weep like the forest now,
For-they are fled!

The richness of Jehovah's love,
These fallen honours show,
While in the hope of rest above,
We run our race below;

For look on time!-Behold its flight!-
Clouds gather 'round our head:-
If leaves foretel death's coming night,
Well!-they are fled!

THE APPLE TREE.

COME, gentle Muse, descend and dwell with me,
Shed thy sweet light around, and set me free
From bonds of prejudice, which daily find
A way to tarnish, and corrupt the mind.
Nor scorn my humble cot, though poor its fare,
The needy stranger hath a welcome there;
My board, or couch, and e'en my scanty store,
With him I'll share, to be returned no more.

Then come, blest Muse, instruct a youthful mind,
And in thy beauties let me wisdom find:
I ask not aid of thine to picture kings,
Luxury, wealth, or visionary things;
Nor to relate how battles may be won,
Or how the Negro toils beneath the sun :
Of states, or palaces, I pass the door-
Their grand interior others may explore-
To Nature's garden, I would wish to flee,
There, fix my choice upon the Apple Tree.
Set forth its time of growth, and blooming gay,
In this, O Muse, assist my sportive lay;
And though the owner's poor, treat not with scorn
A tree, which blossoms fair, without a thorn!

A little tender sprig, snapt from the bough, That lately bore an apple, but which now Must be removed, to strengthen all the rest; And with a double crop next year be blest. The pruner lays the sprig aside with care, Then near the mother tree, he grafts it there, Upon some slender stem; which late did shoot From a small seed, and now had got a root; The life is thus convey'd, from out the earth, And thus, the new-formed tree, receives its birth. He views his tender prize, then in the ground, To give support, he plants a fence around;

To guard it, during winter from the storm,
And 'round about heaps earth to keep it warm.

And now the milder spring, returns once more, The snow is melted and the frost is o'er ; The little tree, though grafted but last year, Is higher grown, and now the buds

appear:

The branches thick with leaves are spreading high,
And a few blossoms tell, that Summer's nigh.
But now the Summer and the Autumn pass,
The leaves fall off, and withered is the grass;
The tree no longer needs a fence around,
Nor prop to keep it firm within the ground;
Its roots are far extended in the earth,

Which give it life, and to new branches birth.

Thus like a child, which, when it once can run, The nurse is pleased the work, so far, is done; And only now remains, with careful eye, To watch each step, and growing infancy : To teach behaviour, little faults to chide, Nor let the ruling passion roam too wide.

And so, the pruner sees 'tis fit, at length, To top this bough, to give the others strength, And from the spring, till spring returns once more, The tree is watched, and pruned, as 'twas before;

As April comes, the buds for bloom appear,-
It bears more fruit with each succeeding year;-
The years revolve, and icy Winters flee,

At length it stands a full-grown Apple Tree!
In April morn, refresh'd with genial showers,
The tree behold, crowned with a thousand flowers;
Each one as fair, as beauteous as the rose,
Paint could not picture, or a line disclose.

Have you walked forth in spring, this flower seen?—
Of all the flowers that bloom it is their queen!
Not mortal life may with its hue compare—
No! human nature is not half so fair.
Here toils the little bee, nor toils in vain,
And with the sun it homeward bears its gain;
A golden sweet, to treasure up in store,
And while the sunshine last it gathers more:
It sips the flower-the little flower we see
Nature has placed upon the Apple Tree!
But soon the blossom fades, it droops, and dies,
A tiny Apple then its place supplies;

Though small and green at first, it soon appears,

A larger form, and a bright colour wears :—

The west-wind comes, and shakes the whole year's

crop,

Sound ones hang fast, but withered ones they drop. And now the weather changes, and the sun

Assists the fruit to ripen, one by one.