SUMMER WOODS. I cannot tell you half the sights There, lightly swung, in bowery glades, And the dark-blue columbine. There grows the four-leaved plant, “true love," And the wood forget-me-not. And many a merry bird is there, The blue-winged jay, the woodpecker, Come down, and ye shall see them all, For their sweet life of pleasantness, It is not to be told. And far within that summer wood, There come the little gentle birds, Without a fear of ill, Down to the murmuring water's edge, And freely drink their fill! And dash about and splash about, The merry little things; And look askance with bright black eyes, I've seen the freakish squirrels drop Great joy it was to me! And down unto the running brook, And the bright water seemed to speak A welcome kind and low. The nodding plants they bowed their heads, As if in heartsome cheer: They spake unto these little things, ""Tis merry living here!" Oh, how my heart ran o'er with joy! And how we might glean up delight And many a wood-mouse dwelleth there, And all day long has work to do, Nor is of aught afraid. The green shoots grow above their heads, And roots so fresh and fine Beneath their feet; nor is there strife 'Mong them for mine and thine. In the wood, where shadows are deepest I met to-day with a fairy, And I followed her where she led. Some magical words she uttered For the sky grew bluer and brighter, The cloudy walls of a palace That was built in Fairy-land. And I stood in a strange enchantment; In my heart of hearts was the magic The magic of joy departed, That Time can never restore. That never, ah, never, never, Never again can be. Shall I tell you what powerful fairy Built up this palace for me? It was only a little white Violet I found at the root of a tree. Adelaide Anne Proctor. WHEN in the woods I wander all alone, (Light heart, light foot, light food, and slumber light, Weighing in thought the World's no happiness, I cannot choose but wonder at its moan, Since so plain joys the woody life can bless. Then live who may, where honeyed words prevail; I with the deer, and with the nightingale! Lord Thurlow. UNDER THE TREES. WHEN the summer days are bright and long, 'Tis sweet in the shady woods to lie, And gaze at the leaves, and the twinkling sky, SONG IN PRAISE OF SPRING. Drinking the while the rare, cool brecze, When winter comes, and the days are dim, Under the trees-under the trees! Summer or winter, day or night, The woods are an ever-new delight; They give us peace, and they make us strong, So, living or dying, I'll take mine ease Under the trees-under the trees! Anonymous. SONG IN PRAISE OF SPRING. WHEN the wind blows In the sweet rose-tree, And the cow lows On the fragrant lea, All light and free, 'Tis not for me, 'tis not for thee; 'Tis not for any one here, I trow: The gentle wind bloweth, 11 |