THE FINE OLD WOODS.

Oh! come, come away to the grave Old Woods,
     Ere the skies are tinged with light,
Ere the slumbering leaves of the gloomy trees,
     Have shook off the mists of Night;
          Ere the birds are up,

          Or the floweret’s cup
     Is drained of its freshening dew,
          Or the bubbling rill,
          Kissing the hill,
     Breaks on the distant view;

          Oh! such is the hour
          To feel the power
     Of the quiet, grave Old Woods.
          Then, while sluggards dream,
          Of some dismal theme,

               Let us stroll,
               With prayerful soul,
Through the depths of the grave Old Woods.

Oh! come, come away to the bright Old Woods,
     As the sun ascends the skies, [Page 98]

While the birdlings sing their morning hymns,
     And each leaf in the grove replies;
          When the golden-zoned bee,
          Flies from flower to tree,
     Seeking sweets for its honied cell,

          And the Voice of Praise
          Sounds its varied lays,
     From the depths of each quiet dell:
          Oh! such is the hour
          To feel such power

     Of the magic, bright Old Woods!
          Then, while sluggards dream,
          Of some trifling theme,
               Let us stroll,
               With studious soul,

Through the depths of the bright Old Woods.

Oh! come, come away to the mild Old Woods,
     At the Evening’s stilly hour,
Ere the maiden lists for her lover’s steps,
     By the verge of the vine-clad bower;

          When all nature feels
          The change that steals
     So calmly o’er hill and dale,
          And the breezes range
          Weirdly strange,

     With a low, delicious wail:—
          This, too, is the hour
          To feel the power [Page 99]
     Of the silent, mild Old Woods!
          Then, while dullards dream

          Of some fruitless theme,
               We will stroll
               With thankful soul,
Through the depths of the mild Old Woods.

Oh! come, come away to the calm Old Woods,

     When the skies with stars are bright,
And the mild Moon moves in serenity,
     The eye of the solemn night.
          Not a sound is heard,
          Save the leaflet stirred

     By the zephyr that passes by,
          And thought roams free
          In its majesty,
     And the soul seeks its kindred sky:
          This, this is the hour

          To test the power
Of the eloquent, calm Old Woods!
          While the thoughtless dream
          Of some baseless theme,
               Here we can stroll,

               With exalted soul,
Through the eloquent, calm Old Woods. [Page 100]