The falcon preys upon the finch, The finch upon the fly, And nought will loose the hunger-pinch But death's wild cry. The milk-haired heifer's life must pass That it may fill your own, As passed the sweet life of the grass She fed upon. The power enslaved by yonder cask Shall many burdens bear; Shall nerve the toiler at his task, The soul at prayer. From lowly woe springs lordly joy; From humbler good diviner; The greater life must aye destroy And drink the minor. From hand to hand life's cup is passed Up Being's piled gradation, Till men to angels yield at last The rich collation. _Ruth_. Well, we are done with the brute; Now let us look at the fruit,-- Every barrel, I'm told, From grafts half a dozen years old. That is a barrel of russets; But we can hardly discuss its Spheres of frost and flint, Till, smitten by thoughts of Spring, And the old tree blossoming, Their bronze takes a yellower tint, And the pulp grows mellower in't. But oh! when they're sick with the savors Of sweets that they dream of, Sure, all the toothsomest flavors They hold the cream of! You will be begging in May, In your irresistible way, For a peck of the apples in gray. Those are the pearmains, I think,-- Bland and insipid as eggs; They were too lazy to drink The light to its dregs, And left them upon the rind-- A delicate film of blue-- Leave them alone;--I can find Better apples for you. Those are the Rhode Island greenings; Excellent apples for pies; There are no mystical meanings In fruit of that color and size. They are too coarse and too juiceful; They are too large and too useful. There are the Baldwins and Flyers, Wrapped in their beautiful fires! Color forks up from their stems As if painted by Flora, Or as out from the pole stream the flames Of the Northern Aurora. Here shall our quest have a close; Fill up your basket with those; Bite through their vesture of flame, And then you will gather All that is meant by the name, "Seek-no-farther!" _David_. The native orchard's fairest trees, Wild springing on the hill, Bear no such precious fruits as these, And never will; Till ax and saw and pruning knife Cut from them every bough, And they receive a gentler life Than crowns them now. And Nature's children, evermore, Though grown to stately stature, Must bear the fruit their fathers bore-- The fruit of nature; Till every thrifty vice is made The shoulder for a scion, Cut from the bending trees that shade The hills of Zion. Sorrow must crop each passion-shoot, And pain each lust infernal, Or human life can bear no fruit To life eternal. For angels wait on Providence; And mark the sundered places, To graft with gentlest instruments The heavenly graces.