Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died
Among their branches; till at last they stood,
As now they stand, massy, and tall, and dark-
Fit shrine for humble worshiper to hold
Communion with his Maker.

Here are seen

No traces of man's pomp or pride; no silks
Rustle, no jewels shine, nor envious eyes
Encounter; no fantastic carvings show

The boast of our vain race to change the form
Of thy fair works. But Thou art here; Thou fill'st
The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds
That run along the summits of these trees

In music; Thou art in the cooler breath
That from the inmost darkness of the place

Comes scarcely felt; the barky trunks, the grouna,
The fresh, moist ground, are all instinct with Thee.

Here is continual worship; nature, here,
In the tranquillity that Thou dost love,
Enjoys thy presence. Noiselessly around
From perch to perch, the solitary bird

Passes; and yon clear spring, that midst its herbs
Wells softly forth, and visits the strong roots
Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale

Of all the good it does.

Thou hast not left

Thyself without a witness, in these shades,

Of Thy perfections. Grandeur, strength, and grace
Are here to speak of Thee. This mighty oak
By whose immovable stem I stand, and seem
Almost annihilated - not a prince

In all the proud Old World beyond the deep
E'er wore his crown as loftily as he

Wears the green coronal of leaves with which
Thy hand has graced him.

Nestled at his root

Is beauty such as blooms not in the glare
Of the broad sun. That delicate forest-flower,
With scented breath and look so like a smile,
Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mold,
An emanation of the indwelling Life,
A visible token of the upholding Love,
That are the soul of this wide universe,

My heart is awed within me when I think
Of the great miracle that still goes on
In silence round me the perpetual work
Of Thy creation, finished, yet renewed
Forever. Written on Thy works I read
The lesson of Thy own eternity.

Lo! all grow old and die; but see again
How, on the faltering footsteps of decay,
Youth presses-ever gay and beautiful youth
In all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees
Wave not less proudly than their ancestors
Molder beneath them.

Oh, there is not lost

One of earth's charms: upon her bosom yet,
After the flight of untold centuries,

The freshness of her fair beginning lies,
And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle hate
Of his arch-enemy Death; yea, seats himself
Upon the sepulchre, and blooms and smiles,
And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe
Makes his own nourishment. For he came forth
From Thine own bosom, and shall have no end.

There have been holy men who hid themselves
Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave

Their lives to thought and prayer, till they outlived
The generation born with them, nor seemed

Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks

Around them; and there have been holy men
Who deemed it were not well to pass life thus.
But let me often to these solitudes

Retire, and in Thy presence reassure

My feeble virtue. Here its enemies,

The passions, at Thy plainer footsteps shrink
And tremble, and are still.

O God! when Thou

Dost scare the world with tempests, set on fire
The heavens with falling thunder-bolts, or fill,
With all the waters of the firmament,

The swift, dark whirlwind that uproots the woods

And drowns the villages; when, at Thy call,
Uprises the great deep and throws himself
Upon the continent, and overwhelms

Its cities; who forgets not, at the sight
Of these tremendous tokens of Thy power,
His pride, and lays his strifes and follies by?

Oh, from these sterner aspects of Thy face
Spare me and mine; nor let us need the wrath
Of the mad, unchained elements to teach
Who rules them. Be it ours to mediate,
In these calm shades, Thy milder majesty,
And to the beautiful order of Thy works
Learn to conform the order of our lives.

FROM

HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS

BY SIR WALTER SCOTT

'Tis merry in greenwood, thus runs the old lay,
In the gladsome month of lively May,
When the wild bird's song on stem and spray
Invites to forest bower;

Then rears the ash his airy crest

Then shines the birch in silver vest,

And the beech in glistening leaves is drest,
And dark between shows the oak's proud breast,
Like a chieftain's frowning tower.

THE MAJESTY OF TREES

BY WASHINGTON IRVING

THERE is a serene and settled majesty in woodland scenery that enters into the soul, and delights and elevates it, and fills it with noble inclinations. As the leaves of trees are said to absorb all noxious qualities of the air and to breathe forth a purer atmosphere, so it seems to me as if they drew from us all sordid and angry passions, and breathed forth peace and philanthropy.

There is something nobly simple and pure in a taste for the cultivation of forest trees. It argues I think, a sweet and generous nature to have this strong relish for the beauties of vegetation, and this friendship for the hardy and glorious sons of the forest. There is a grandeur of thought connected with this part of rural economy. It is, if I may be allowed the figure, the heroic line of husbandry. It is worthy of liberal, and free-born, and aspiring men. He who plants an oak, looks forward to future ages, and plants for posterity. Nothing can be less selfish than this.

A FAMOUS COUPLET

BY ALEXANDER POPE

"TIS education forms the common mind;
Just as the twig is bent the tree's inclined.