Slopes quivering down the water's dusky quiet, Thou shrink'st, as on her bath's edge would some strolled Dryad. Thou art the go-between of rustic lovers; Thy white bark has their secrets in its keeping; Thou art to me like my beloved maiden, So frankly coy, so full of trembly confidences; Whether my heart with hope or sorrow tremble, I fling me down; thy ripple, like a river, J. R. LOWELL THE HEMLOCK-TREE. FROM THE GERMAN. O hemlock-tree! O hemlock-tree! how faithful are thy branches! Green not alone in summer time, But in the winter's frost and rime! O hemlock-tree! O hemlock-tree! how faithful are thy branches! O maiden fair! O maiden fair! how faithless is thy bosom! And leave me in adversity O maiden fair! O maiden fair! how faithless is thy bosom! The nightingale! the nightingale thou tak'st for thine example! So long as summer laughs she sings, But in the autumn spreads her wings; The nightingale! the nightingale thou tak'st for thine example! The meadow-brook, the meadow-brook is mirror of thy falsehood! It flows so long as falls the rain; In drought its springs soon dry again; The meadow-brook, the meadow-brook is mirror of thy falsehood! THE OAK. IMITATED FROM THE ITALIAN OF METASTASI0. The tall oak, towering to the skies, From age to age, in virtue strong, O'erwhelmed at length, upon the plain JAMES MONTGOMERY. ΟΝ ΑΝ ANCIENT OAK. FROM THE GREEK OF ANTIPHILUS. Hail, venerable boughs, that in mid sky Translation of J. H. MERIVALE. But he would come in the very hour As if a sunbeam showed the place, It seemed as if the breezes brought him ; Where, in far fields, the orchis grew. Seldom seen by wistful eyes; But all her shows did Nature yield, And at his bidding seemed to come. In unplowed Maine he sought the lumberer's gang, 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-hýmn of the perfect tree, Declares the close of its green century. Low lies the plant to whose creation went Whose living towers the years conspired to build- 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, 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. JOHN 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, 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, Youth and the opening rose May look like things too glorious for decay, And smile at thee-but thou art not of those |