174 JUNE. 



Within the forest's twilight glade, 

 Where the wild deer its covert made ; 

 In the green vale, remote and still, 

 And gleaming on the ancient hill. 

 The days are distant now, gone by 

 With the old times of minstrelsy, 

 When all unblest with written lore, 

 Were treasured up traditions hoar ; 

 And each still lake and mountain lone 

 Had a wild legend of its own ; 

 And hall, and cot, and valley-stream, 

 Were hallowed by the minstrel's dream. 



Then musing in the woodland nook, 

 Each flower was as a written book, 

 Recalling, by memorial quaint, 

 The holy deed of martyred saint, 

 The patient faith, which, unsubdued, 

 Grew mightier through fire and blood. 

 One blossom, 'mid its leafy shade, 

 The virgin's purity portrayed ; 

 And one, with cup all crimson dyed, 

 Spoke of a Saviour crucified : 

 And rich the store of holy thought 

 That little forest-flower brought. 

 Doctrine and miracle, whate'er 

 We draw from books, was treasured there. 

 Faith in the wild wood's tangled bound 

 A blessed heritage had found ! 

 And Charity and Hope were seen 

 In the lone isle and wild ravine. 

 Then pilgrims in the forest brown 

 Slow wandering on from town to town, 

 Halting 'mid mosses green and dank, 

 Breathed each a prayer before they drank 

 From waters by the pathway side. 

 Then duly morn and eventide, 

 Before those ancient crosses gray. 

 Now mouldering silently away, 



