The mellow footstep on a ground of leaves Form'd by the slow decay of num'rous years, — The couch of moss, whose growth alone appears, Beneath the fir's inhospitable eaves,

The chirp and flutter of some single bird,
The rustle in the brake, what precious store
Of joys have these on poets' hearts conferr'd?
And then at times to send one's own voice out,
In the full frolic of one startling shout,

Only to feel the after stillness more!

BRAVEL

Their countless pennons to the fields of air,

And, like a sylvan king,

Their panoply of green still proudly wear.

As some rude tower of old,

Thy massive trunk still rears its rugged form,
With limbs of giant mold,

To battle sternly with the winter storm.

In Nature's mighty fane,

Thou art the noblest arch beneath the sky;

How long the pilgrim train

That with a benison have passed thee by!

Lone patriarch of the wood!

Like a true spirit thou dost freely rise,
Of fresh and dauntless mood,

Spreading thy branches to the open skies.

The locust knows thee well,

And when the summer-days his notes prolong,
Hid in some leafy cell,

Pours from thy world of green his drowsy song.

The sunset often weaves

Upon thy crest a wreath of splendors rare,
While the fresh murmuring leaves

Fill with cool sound the evening's sultry air.

Sacred thy roof of green

To rustic dance, and childhood's gambols free;
Gay youth and age serene

Turn with familiar gladness unto thee.

With blessings at thy feet,

Falls the worn peasant to his noontide rest;

Thy verdant, calm retreat

Inspires the sad and soothes the troubled breast.

- Henry T. Tuckerman.

WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE.

JOODMAN, spare that tree!
Touch not a single bough!

WOODMAN,

In youth it sheltered me,

And I'll protect it now.
'Twas my forefather's hand

That placed it near his cot;
There, woodman, let it stand-
Thy ax shall harm it not!

That old familiar tree,

Whose glory and renown
Are spread o'er land and sea

And wouldst thou hew it down?
Woodman, forbear thy stroke!
Cut not its earth-bound ties;
Oh, spare that aged oak,
Now towering to the skies!

When but an idle boy,

I sought its grateful shade; In all their gushing joy

Here, too, my sisters played. My mother kissed me here; My father pressed my hand. Forgive this foolish tear,

But let that old oak stand!

My heart-strings round thee cling
Close as thy bark, old friend!
Here shall the wild-bird sing,

And still thy branches bend.
Old tree! the storm still brave!
And, woodman, leave the spot;
While I've a hand to save,

Thy ax shall harm it not!

George P. Morris

THE BLACKBIRD.

BLACKBIRD! sing me something well; While all the neighbors shoot thee round, I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground, Where thou may'st warble, eat, and dwell.

The espaliers and the standards all
Are thine; the range of lawn and park
The unnetted blackhearts ripen dark,
All thine, against the garden wall.

Yet, tho' I spared thee all the spring,
Thy sole delight is, sitting still,
With that cold dagger of thy bill
To fret the summer jenneting.

A golden bill! the silver tongue,
Cold February loved, is dry;

Plenty corrupts the melody

That made thee famous once, when young;

And in the sultry garden squares,

Now thy flute notes are changed to coarse,
I hear thee not at all, or hoarse

As when a hawker hawks his wares.

Take warning! he that will not sing
While yon sun prospers in the blue,
Shall sing for want, ere leaves are new,
Caught in the frozen palms of Spring.

-Alfred Tennyson.

HOW

BIRDS IN SUMMER.

OW pleasant the life of a bird must be,
Flitting about in each leafy tree;

In the leafy trees so broad and tall,
Like a green and beautiful palace hall,
With its airy chambers light and boon,
That open to sun and stars and moon;
That open to the bright blue sky,
And the frolicsome winds as they wander by.

They have left their nests on the forest bough;
Those homes of delight they need not now;
And the young and the old they wander out,
And traverse their green world round about;
And hark! at the top of this leafy hall,
How one to the other in love they call!
"Come up! come up!" they seem to say,
Where the topmost twigs in the breezes sway.

"Come up! come up! for the world is fair
Where the merry leaves dance in the summer air."
And the birds below give back the cry,

"We come, we come to the branches high."