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But he would come in the very hour
It opened in its virgin bower,
As if a sunbeam showed the place,
And tell its long-descended race.
It seemed as if the breezes brought him ;
It seemed as if the sparrows tauglit him;
As if by secret sight he knew
Where, in far fields, the orchis grew.
Many laps fall in the field,
Seldom seen by wistful eyes;
But all her shows did Nature yield,
To please and win this pilgrim wise.
He saw the partridge drum in the woods,
He heard the woodcock's evening hymn;
He found the tawny thrush's broods;
And the sky-hawk did wait for him.
What others did at distance hear,
And guessed within the thicket's gloom,
Was showed to this philosopher,
And at his bidding seemed to come.

In unplowed Maine he sought the lumberer's gang,
Where from a hundred lakes young rivers sprang;
He trod the unplanted forest floor, whereon
The all-seeing sun for ages hath not shone;
Where feeds the moose and walks the surly bear,
And up the tall mast runs the woodpecker.
He saw beneath dim aisles, in odorous beds,
The slight Linnea hang its twin-born heads;
And blessed the monument of the man of flowers,
Which breathes his sweet fame through the northern bowers.
He heard, when in the grove, at intervals,
With sudden roar the aged pine-tree falls —
One crash, the death-hymn of the perfect tree,
Declares the close of its green century.
Low lies the plant to whose creation went
Sweet influence from every element;
Whose living towers the years conspired to build-
Whose giddy top the morning loved to gild.
Through these green tents, by eldest Nature dressed,
He roamed, content alike with man and beast.
Where darkness found him he lay glad at night;
There the red morning touched him with its light.
Three moons his great heart him a hermit made,
So long he roved at will the boundless shade.

The timid it concerns to ask their way,
And fear what foe in caves and swamps can stray ;
To make no step until the event is known,
And ills to come, as evils past, bemoan.
Not so the wise ; no coward watch he keeps,
To spy what danger on his pathway creeps.
Go where he will, the wise man is at home-
His hearth the earth, his hall the azure dome;
Where his clear spirit leads him, there his road,
By God's own light illumined and foreshowed.

R. W. EMERSON.

A PINE-FOREST.

Those who have only lived in forest countries, where vast tracts are shaded by a dense growth of oak, ash, chestnut, hickory, and other trees of deciduous foliage, which present the most pleasing varieties of verdure and freshness, can have but little idea of the effect produced on the feelings by aged forests of pine, composed in great degree of a single species, whose towering summits are crowned with one dark-green canopy, which successive seasons find unchanged, and nothing but death causes to vary. Their robust and gigantic trunks rise a hundred or more feet high in purely proportioned columns before the limbs begin to diverge; and their tops, densely clothed with long, bristling foliage, intermingle so closely as to allow of but slight entrance to the sun. Hence the undergrowth of such forests is comparatively slight and thin, since none but shrubs and plants that love the shade can flourish under this perpetual exclusion of the animating and invigorating rays of the great exciter of the vegetable world. Through such forests, and by the merest foot-paths in great part, it was my lot to pass many miles almost every day; and had I not endeavored to derive some amusement and instruction from the study of the forest itself, my time would have been as fatiguing to me as it was certainly quiet and solemn. But wherever Nature is, and under whatever form she may present herself, enough is always proffered to fix attention and to produce pleasure, if we will condescend to observe with carefulness. I soon found that even a pineforest was far from being devoid of interest.

Joun M. GODMAN, 1795–1829.

A WOOD IN WINTER.

FROM THE ITALIAN

Sweet, lonely wood, that like a friend art found
To soothe my weary thoughts that brood on woe,
While through dull days and short the north winds blow,
Numbing with winter's breath the air and ground
Thy time-worn, leafy locks seem all around,
Like mine, to whiten with old age's snow,
Now that thy sunny banks, where late did grow
The painted flowers, in frost and ice are bound.
As I go musing on the dim, brief light
That still of life remain, then I, too, feel
The creeping cold my limbs and spirits thrill;
But I with sharper frost than thine congeal ;
Since ruder winds my winter brings, and nights

Of greater length, and days more scant and chill.
Anonymous Translation,

GIOVANNI DELLA CASA, 1503-1556.

“ LEAVES HAVE THEIR TIME TO FALL.”

Leaves have their time to fall,
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath.

And stars to set—but all,
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh! Death.

Day is for mortal care;
Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth;

Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer-
But all for-thee, thou mightiest of the earth.

The banquet hath its hour,
Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine;

There comes a day of grief's overwhelming power,
A time for softer tears—but all are thine.

Youth and the opening rose
May look like things too glorious for decay,

And smile at thee-but thou art not of those
That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey.

Leaves have their time to fall,
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath,

And stars to set, but all-
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh! Death.

We know when moons shall wane-
When summer-birds from far shall cross the sea-

When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain-
But who shall teach us when to look for thee?

Is it when spring's first gale
Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie?

Is it when roses in our path grow pale ?
They have one season-all are ours to die!

Thou art where billows foam-
Thou art where music melts upon the air;

Thou art around us in our peaceful home,
And the world calls us forth to meet thee there.

Thou art where friend meets friend, Beneath the shadow of the elm, at rest;

Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest.

Leaves have their time to fall,
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath,

And stars to set, but all-
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh! Death.

FELICIA HEMANS.

SONNET.

Thrice happy he who by some shady grove,

Far from the clamorous world, doth live his own;

Though solitary, who is not alone,
But doth converse with that Eternal Love.
O how more sweet is bird's harmonious moan,

Or the hoarse sobbings of the widow'd dove,
Than those smooth whisperings near a prince's throne,

Which good make doubtful, do the ill approve!
O how more sweet is zephyr's wholesome breath,

And sighs embalm’d, which new-born flowers unfold, Than that applause vain honor doth bequeath!

How sweet are streams, to poisons drank in gold! The world is full of horrors, troubles, slights; Woods' harmless shades have only true delights.

WILLIAM DEUMMOND, 1555-1619.

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