Ye have no history. I ask in vain Who planted on the slope this lofty group Of ancient pear-trees that with spring-time burst Into such breadth of bloom. One bears a scar Where the quick lightning scored its trunk, yet still It feels the breath of Spring, and every May Is white with blossoms. Who it was that laid Their infant roots in earth, and tenderly Cherished the delicate sprays, I ask in vain, Yet bless the unknown hand to which I owe This annual festival of bees, these songs Of birds within their leafy screen, these shouts Of joy from children gathering up the fruit Shaken in August from the willing boughs. Ye that my hands have planted, or have spared, Beside the way, or in the orchard-ground, Or in the open meadow, ye whose boughs With every summer spread a wider shade, Whose herd in coming years shall lie at rest Beneath your noontide shelter? who shall pluck Your ripened fruit? who grave, as was the wont Of simple pastoral ages, on the rind Of my smooth beeches some beloved name? Idly I ask; yet may the eyes that look Upon you, in your later, nobler growth, Look also on a nobler age than ours; An age when, in the eternal strife between Evil and Good, the Power of Good shall win A grander mastery; when kings no more Shall summon millions from the plough to learn The trade of slaughter, and of populous realms Make camps of war; when in our younger land The hand of ruffian Violence, that now Is insolently raised to smite, shall fall Unnerved before the calm rebuke of Law, And Fraud, his sly confederate, shrink, in shame, Back to his covert, and forego his prey. MAY EVENING. The breath of Spring-time at this twilight hour Comes through the gathering glooms, And bears the stolen sweets of many a flower Into my silent rooms. Where hast thou wandered, gentle gale, to find The perfumes thou dost bring? By brooks, that through the wakening meadows wind, Or brink of rushy spring? Or woodside, where, in little companies, The early wild-flowers rise, Or sheltered lawn, where, mid encircling trees, May's warmest sunshine lies? Now sleeps the humming-bird, that, in the sun, Wandered from bloom to bloom; Now, too, the weary bee, his day's work done, Rests in his waxen room. Now every hovering insect to his place Beneath the leaves hath flown; And, through the long night hours, the flowery race Are left to thee alone. O'er the pale blossoms of the sassafras And o'er the spice-bush spray, Among the opening buds, thy breathings pass, And come embalmed away. Yet there is sadness in thy soft caress, Wind of the blooming year! The gentle presence, that was wont to bless Thy coming, is not here.