A song for the beautiful trees! A song for the forest grand, The Garden of God’s own hand, The pride of His centuries. Hurrah! for the kingly oak, For the maple, the sylvan queen, For the lords of the emerald cloak, For the ladies in golden green. For the beautiful trees a song! The peers of a glorious realm, The linden, the ash, and the elm, The poplar stately and strong,-- For the birch and the hemlock trim, For the hickory staunch at core, For the locust thorny and grim, For the silvery sycamore. A song for the palm,--the pine, And for every tree that grows, From the desolate zone of snows To the zone of the burning line; Hurrah! for the warders proud Of the mountainside and the vale, That challenge the thunder-cloud, And buffet the stormy gale. A song for the forest, aisled, With its Gothic roof sublime, The solemn temple of Time, Where man becometh a child, As he listens the anthem-roll Of the voiceful winds that call, In the solitude of his soul, On the name of the All-in-All. So long as the rivers flow, So long as the mountains rise, May the foliage drink of the skies And shelter the flowers below; Hurrah! for the beautiful trees! Hurrah! for the forest grand, The pride of His centuries, The Garden of God’s own hand. A BALLAD OF OLD KENTUCKY. Well, this is my story of Schoolmaster John, And how, single-handed, he slew A terrible monster, one May day, at dawn, When our staunch old Kentucky was new. Full rude was the cabin, o’ershadowed by trees, For the Lexington school-children made; For, Cadmus forbid that the shrewd A-B-C’s Be lost in the tanglewood shade! Alone sat the pedagogue, throned on a stool, Entranced by poetical lore; He waited and read, while the morning’s breath cool Floated in through the wide-open door. Bent over a magical page of the tome That Vergil--how long ago!--wrote, He mused of Æneas and Dido and Rome, When a tiger-cat sprang at his throat! Fight, fight! John McKinney, or perish! He fought! Forgot was the Queen and her woe! He uttered no cry; of the children he thought As he grappled his terrible foe! Now which shall be victor, the brute or the man? Hands battle against teeth and claws! Survive the dread struggle the nature that can! Savage might against letters and laws! The beast by the master was throttled and crushed On his desk, while its fangs stung his side; With the crimsoning rill from his pulses that gushed, The leaves of his Vergil were dyed. Who fly to the rescue? Who scream with alarm? Three scared little maidens! Then said The schoolmaster, smiling, “No harm, dears, no harm! I have caught you a wild-cat;--it’s dead.”