SUMMER WOODS.

I cannot tell you half the sights
Of beauty you may see,
The bursts of golden sunshine,
And many a shady tree.

There, lightly swung, in bowery glades,
The honey-suckles twine;

There blooms the rose-red campion,
And the dark-blue columbine.

There grows the four-leaved plant, "true love,"

In some dusk woodland spot;
There grows the enchanter's night-shade,
And the wood forget-me-not.

And many a merry bird is there,
Unscared by lawless men;
The blue-winged jay, the woodpecker,
And the golden-crested wren.

Come down, and ye shall see them all,
The timid and the bold;

For their sweet life of pleasantness,
It is not to be told.

And far within that summer wood,
Among the leaves so green,
There flows a little gurgling brook,
The brightest e'er was seen.

There come the little gentle birds,
Without a fear of ill,

Down to the murmuring water's edge,
And freely drink their fill!

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And dash about and splash about,
The merry little things;

And look askance with bright black eyes,
And flirt their dripping wings.

I've seen the freakish squirrels drop
Down from their leafy tree,.
The little squirrels with the old, -
Great joy it was to me!

And down unto the running brook,
I've seen them nimbly go;
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!
I saw that all was good,

And how we might glean up delight
All round us, if we would!

And many a wood-mouse dwelleth there,
Beneath the old wood shade,

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.

There is enough for every one,
And they lovingly agree;
We might learn a lesson, all of us,
Beneath the greenwood tree.

Mary Howitt.

IN THE WOOD.

In the wood, where shadows are deepest
From the branches overhead,
Where the wild wood-strawberries cluster,
And the softest moss is spread,
I met to-day with a fairy,

And I followed her where she led.

Some magical words she uttered

I alone could understand,
For the sky grew bluer and brighter,
While there rose on either hand

The cloudy walls of a palace

That was built in Fairy-land.

And I stood in a strange enchantment;
I had known it all before:

In my heart of hearts was the magic
Of days that will come no more-

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

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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,

The woods, that are my solace and delight, Which I more covet than a Prince's throne, My toil by day, my canopy by night (Light heart, light foot, light food, and slumber light, These lights shall light us to old Age's gate, While monarchs, whom rebellious dreams affright, Heavy with fear, death's fearful summons wait); Whilst here I wander, pleased to be alone,

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,
And the little birds pipe a merry song,
'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,
Under the trees-under the trees!

When winter comes, and the days are dim,
And the wind is singing a mournful hymn,
'Tis sweet in the faded woods to stray,
And tread the dead leaves into the clay,
Thinking of all life's mysteries,
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,
Such wonderful balms to them belong;
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,

And the stream flows

All light and free,

'Tis not for me, 'tis not for thee;

'Tis not for any one here, I trow:

The gentle wind bloweth,

The happy cow loweth,

The merry stream floweth,

For all below!

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