And the kine's keeper, came
Slow up the valley path,
And laid them underneath
My cool and rustling leaves;
And I could feel them there
As in the quiet shade
They stood with tender thoughts,
That pass'd along their life
Like wings on a still lake,
Blessing me; and to God,
The blessed God, who cares
For all my little leaves,
Went up the silent praise;
And I was glad with joy
Which life of laboring things
Ill knows, the joy that sinks-
Into a life of rest.

Ages have fled since then:
But deem not my pierced trunk

And scanty leafage serve
No high behest; my name
Is sounded far and wide;
And in the Providence

That guides the steps of men,
Hundreds have come to view
My grandeur in decay;

And there hath pass'd from me
A quiet influence

Into the minds of men:
The silver head of age,
The majesty of laws,
The very name of God,
And holiest things that are
Have won upon the heart
Of humankind the more,
For that I stand to meet
With vast and bleaching trunk,
The rudeness of the sky.

ENDURANCE.

How much the heart may bear, and yet not break!

How much the flesh may suffer, and not die!

I question much if any pain or ache Of soul or body brings our end more nigh;

Death chooses his own time; till that is sworn,

All evils may be borne.

We shrink and shudder at the sureon's knife,

Each nerve recoiling from the cruel steel

Whose edge seems searching for the quivering life,

Yet to our sense the bitter pangs reveal,

That still, although the trembling flesh be torn,

This also can be borne.

We see a sorrow rising in our way, And try to flee from the approaching ill;

We seek some small escape; we weep and pray;

grain;

So crumble strongest lives away
Beneath the wear of every day.

Who finds the lion in his lair,

Who tracks the tiger for his life, May wound them ere they are aware, Or conquer them in desperate strife;

The vexing gnats of every day.
Yet powerless he to scathe or slay

The steady strain that never stops

The constant fall of water-drops
Is mightier than the fiercest shock;

Will groove the adamantine rock; We feel our noblest powers decay, In feeble wars with every day.

We rise to meet a heavy blow

Our souls a sudden bravery fills But we endure not always so

The drop-by-drop of little ills! We still deplore and still obey The hard behests of every day.

The heart which boldly faces death Upon the battle-field, and dares Cannon and bayonet, faints beneath The needle-points of frets and cares he stoutest spirits they dismay The tiny stings of every day.