DA Y MA \ UAL. 1 1 



Tis beautiful to see a forest stand, 



Brave with its moss-grown monarchs and the pride 

 Of foliage dense, to which the south wind bland 



Comes with a kiss as lover to his bride; 

 To watch the light grow fainter, as it streams 



Through arching aisles, where branches interlace, 

 Where somber pines rise o'er the shadowy gleams 



Of silver birch, trembling with modest grace. 



A. B. NEAL. 



THE heave, the wave, and bend 

 Of everlasting trees, whose busy leaves 

 Rustle their songs of praise, while ruin weaves 

 A robe of verdure for their yielding bark, 

 While mossy garlands, full and rich and dark, 

 Creep slowly round them ! Monarch of the wood, 

 Whose mighty scepters sway the mountain brood, 



Shelter the winged idolaters of Day 

 And grapple with the storm-god, hand to hand, 



Then drop like weary pyramids away. 



Stupendous monuments of calm decay. 



JOHN NEAL. 



THERE oft the muse, what most delights her, sees 



Long living galleries of aged trees, 



Bold sons of earth, that lift their arms so high, 



As if once they would invade the sky. 



In such green palaces the first kings reigned. 



Slept in their shade, and angels entertained ; 



With such old councillors they did advise, 



And, by frequenting sacred groves, grew wise. 



OH ! bear me then to vast embowering shades ; 

 To twilight groves, and visionary vales ; 

 To weeping grottoes, and prophetic glooms ! 

 Where angel forms athwart the solemn dusk 

 Tremendous, sweep, or seem to sweep, along : 

 And voices, more than human, through the void. 

 Deep-sounding, seize the enthusiastic ear. 



THOMSON*. Autumn. 



We bring daisies, little starry daisies, 



The angels have planted to remind us of the sky. 



When the stars have vanished they twinkle their mute praises, 



Telling, in the dewy grass, of brighter fields on high. 



READ. 



