46 VOICES FROM THE WOODLANDS. 



the wildly-wooded scenery, with its rocks and torrents, 

 is worthy of the graceful fern that dwells among them. 



Do not overlook me, said one, whose place of growth 

 was lowly, beside the water. Hart's-tongue is my name, 

 and, if it became me to speak in my own praise, I might 

 say that none among my tribe are more graceful and pleasing 

 to the eye. I am almost universally, though not abundantly, 

 distributed ; and even in my places of growth the naturalist 

 does not always find me, as I love to hide in the thickest 

 part of hedges, growing, too, on walls and ruins. But my 

 favourite haunts are old wells, because of their shade and 

 dampness. Listen to what a poet has sung concerning me. 



" Lonely the forest spring. A rocky hill 

 Rises beside it, and an aged yew 

 Bursts from the rifted crags that overhang 

 The waters, cavern'd there. Unseen and slow, 

 And silently they well. The adder's tongue, 

 Rich with the wrinkles of its glossy green, 

 Hangs down its long lank leaves, whose wavy dip 

 Just breaks the tranquil surface. Ancient woods 

 Bosom the quiet beauties of the place, 

 Nor ever sound profanes it, save such sounds 



