THIS is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,

Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,

Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic,

Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms.

Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean

Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.

This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it

Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland

the voice of the huntsman?

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

THE GREENWOOD TREE.

66

FROM AS YOU LIKE IT," ACT II. SC. 5.

UNDER the greenwood tree
Who loves to lie with me,

And tune his merry note

Unto the sweet bird's throat,

Come hither, come hither, come hither;
Here shall he see

No enemy

But Winter and rough weather.

Who doth ambition shun
And loves to live i' the sun,
Seeking the food he eats,

And pleased with what he gets,

Come hither, come hither, come hither;
Here shall he see

No enemy

But Winter and rough weather.

SHAKESPEARE.

THE WIND AND THE PINE-TREE.

66
FROM EDWIN THE FAIR."

THE tale was this:

The wind, when first he rose and went abroad Through the waste region, felt himself at fault, Wanting a voice; and suddenly to earth

Descended with a wafture and a swoop,

Where, wandering volatile from kind to kind,
He wooed the several trees to give him one.
First he besought the ash; the voice she lent
Fitfully with a free and lasting change
Flung here and there its sad uncertainties:
The aspen next; a fluttered frivolous twitter
Was her sole tribute: from the willow came,
So long as dainty summer dressed her out,
A whispering sweetness, but her winter note
Was hissing, dry, and reedy: lastly the pine
Did he solicit, and from her he drew

A voice so constant, soft, and lowly deep,
That there he rested, welcoming in her
A mild memorial of the ocean-cave

Where he was born.

SIR HENRY TAYLOR.

THE BRAVE OLD OAK.

A SONG to the oak, the brave old oak,

Who hath ruled in the greenwood long;

Here's health and renown to his broad green

crown,

And his fifty arms so strong.

There's fear in his frown when the sun goes down, And the fire in the west fades out;

And he showeth his might on a wild midnight,
When the storm through his branches shout.

Then here's to the oak, the brave old oak,
Who stands in his pride alone;
And still flourish he, a hale green tree,
When a hundred years are gone!

In the days of old, when the spring with cold
Had brightened his branches gray,

Through the grass at his feet crept maidens sweet, To gather the dew of May.

And on that day to the rebeck gay

They frolicked with lovesome swains;

They are gone, they are dead, in the churchyard laid,

But the tree it still remains.

Then here's, etc.

He saw the rare times when the Christmas chimes

Were a merry sound to hear,

When the squire's wide hall and the cottage small Were filled with good English cheer.

Now gold hath the sway we all obey,

And a ruthless king is he;

But he never shall send our ancient friend

To be tossed on the stormy sea.

Then here's to the oak, the brave old oak,
Who stands in his pride alone;

And still flourish he, a hale green tree,
When a hundred years are gone!

HENRY FOTHERGILL CHORLEY.

THE HOLLY-TREE.

O READER! hast thou ever stood to see
The holly-tree?

The eye that contemplates it well perceives
Its glossy leaves

Ordered by an intelligence so wise

As might confound the atheist's sophistries.

Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen
Wrinkled and keen;

No grazing cattle, through their prickly round,
Can reach to wound;

But as they grow where nothing is to fear, Smooth and unarmed the pointless leaves appear.

I love to view these things with curious eyes,
And moralize;

And in this wisdom of the holly-tree
Can emblems see

Wherewith, perchance, to make a pleasant rhyme,
One which may profit in the after-time.

Thus, though abroad, perchance, I might appear
Harsh and austere;

To those who on my leisure would intrude,
Reserved and rude;

Gentle at home amid my friends I'd be,

Like the high leaves upon the holly-tree.

And should my youth-as youth is apt, I knowSome harshness show,

All vain asperities I, day by day,

Would wear away,

Till the smooth temper of my age should be
Like the high leaves upon the holly-tree.

And as, when all the summer trees are seen
So bright and green,