"UNDER GREEN LEAVES."

SONG.

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.

William Shakspeare.

THE GREENWOOD.

OH! when 'tis summer weather,
And the yellow bee, with fairy sound,
The waters clear is humming round,
And the cuckoo sings unseen,
And the leaves are waving green—
Oh! then 'tis sweet,

In some retreat,

To hear the murmuring dove,

With those whom on earth alone we love,
And to wind through the greenwood together.

But when 'tis winter weather,

And crosses grieve,

And friends deceive,

And rain and sleet

The lattice beat

Oh! then 'tis sweet

To sit and sing

Of the friends with whom, in the days of Spring, We roamed through the greenwood together.

W. L. Bowles.

SUMMER WOODS.

COME ye into the summer woods;

There entereth no annoy;

All greenly wave the chestnut leaves,
And the earth is full of joy.

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.