"It is pleasant," as Mr. George W. Curtis has said, "to remember, on Arbor Day, that Bryant, our oldest American poet and the father of our American literature, is especially the poet of trees. He grew up among the solitary hills of western Massachusetts, where the woods were his nursery and the trees his earliest comrades. The solemnity of the forest breathes through all his verse, and he had always, even in the city, a grave, rustic air, as of a man who heard the babbling brooks and to whom the trees told their secrets."
His "Forest Hymn" is familiar to many, but it cannot be too familiar. It would be well if teachers would encourage their pupils to commit the whole, or portions of it, at least, to memory. Let it be made a reading lesson, but, in making it such, let pains be taken to point out its felicities of expression, its beautiful moral tone and lofty sentiment, and its wise counsels for life and conduct. Nothing could be more appropriate, especially for the indoor portion of the Arbor Day exercises, than to have this poem, or portions of it, read by some pupil in full sympathy with its spirit, or by some class in concert.
The groves were God's first temples, ere man learned To hew the shaft and lay the architrave And spread the roof above them, ere he framed The lofty vault to gather and roll back The sound of anthems; in the darkling wood, Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks And supplications. For his simple heart Might not resist the sacred influences Which from the stilly twilight of the place And from the gray old trunks that high in heaven Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound Of the invisible breath that swayed at once All their green tops, stole over him and bowed His spirit with the thought of boundless power And inaccessible majesty. Ah, why Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect God's ancient sanctuaries and adore Only among the crowd and under roofs That our frail hands have raised? Let me, at least, Here, in the shadow of this ancient wood, Offer one hymn, thrice happy if it find Acceptance in His ear.
We can hardly see or think of trees without being reminded of Mr. Lowell, whose death during the last year was so great a loss. He was eminently a lover of trees, and they were the inspiration of some of his best prose and poetry. This love of trees led him to call his pleasant place of residence, in Cambridge, "Elmwood." In making up our selections for reading or recitation on Arbor Day, the writings of no one have been turned to more often, probably, than those of Mr. Lowell, and it will be very proper if we make this year's observance distinguished by the abundance of our extracts from his various works. We may well also plant memorial trees in honor of him. No one is more worthy of such honor, and we can hardly do any better thing than to plant trees which shall bear his name and remind us hereafter of his noble words and noble life. And no memorial of him would be more appropriate or more accordant with his own feelings than a growing tree. This is abundantly shown by the following letter, written only a few years ago, when it was proposed in one of our schools, to plant on Arbor Day, a tree in his memory.
