A happy man he thinks himself, A man that’s passing well,-- To have some fruit for the children, And some besides to sell. Around the rich man’s trellissed bower Gay, costly creepers run; The poor man has his scarlet-beans To screen him from the sun. And there before the little bench, O’ershadowed by the bower, Grow southern-wood and lemon-thyme, Sweet-pea and gilliflower; And pinks and clove-carnations, Rich-scented side by side; And at each end a holly-hock, With an edge of London-pride. And here comes the old grandmother, When her day’s work is done; And here they bring the sickly babe To cheer it in the sun. And here, on Sabbath-mornings, The good man comes to get His Sunday nosegay, moss-rose bud, White pink, and mignonette. And here, on Sabbath-evenings, Until the stars are out, With a little one in either hand, He walketh all about. For though his garden-plot is small, Him doth it satisfy; For there’s no inch of all his ground That does not fill his eye. It is not with the rich man thus; For though his grounds are wide, He looks beyond, and yet beyond, With soul unsatisfied. Yes! in the poor man’s garden grow Far more than herbs and flowers;-- Kind thoughts, contentment, peace of mind, And joy for weary hours. THE OAK-TREE. Sing for the Oak-Tree, The monarch of the wood; Sing for the Oak-Tree, That groweth green and good; That groweth broad and branching Within the forest shade; That groweth now, and yet shall grow When we are lowly laid! The Oak-Tree was an acorn once, And fell upon the earth; And sun and showers nourished it, And gave the Oak-Tree birth. The little sprouting Oak-Tree! Two leaves it had at first, Till sun and showers had nourished it, Then out the branches burst. The little sapling Oak-Tree! Its root was like a thread, Till the kindly earth had nourished it, Then out it freely spread: On this side and on that side It grappled with the ground; And in the ancient, rifted rock Its firmest footing found. The winds came, and the rain fell; The gusty tempest blew; All, all were friends to the Oak-Tree, And stronger yet it grew. The boy that saw the acorn fall, He feeble grew and grey; But the Oak was still a thriving tree, And strengthened every day! Four centuries grows the Oak-Tree Nor doth its verdue fail; Its heart is like the iron-wood, Its bark like plated mail. Now, cut us down the Oak-Tree, The monarch of the wood; And of its timbers stout and strong We’ll build a vessel good!