206 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. Many haps fall in the field, Seldom seen by wistful eyes; But all her shows did Nature yield, To please and win this pilgrim wise. And at his bidding seemed to come. In unplowed Maine he sought the lumberer's gang, The all-seeing sun for ages hath not shone; 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- 207 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 Through such forests, and by the exciter of the vegetable world. 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. 1 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, Thy time-worn, leafy locks seem all around, Now that thy sunny banks, where late did grow "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; 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 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 grainBut who shall teach us when to look for thee? Is it when spring's first gale Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie? 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. SONNET. 209 FELICIA HEMANS. Thrice happy he who by some shady grove, Far from the clamorous world, doth live his own; But doth converse with that Eternal Love. Or the hoarse sobbings of the widow'd dove, |