150 VOICES FROM THE WOODLANDS. 



A future sustenance, a summer's pride, 

 Demand thy vigilance : then be it tried ; 

 Exert thy voice, and wield thy shotless gun : 

 Go tarry there from morn till setting sun. 



" Keen blows the blast, or ceaseless rains descend, 

 The half-stript hedge a sorry shelter lends. 

 Oh, for a hovel, e'er so small or low. 

 Whose roof, repelling winds and early snow, 

 Might bring home comforts fresh before his eyes ! 

 No sooner thought, than see the structure rise, 

 In some sequestered nook embanked around, 

 Sod for its walls, and straw in bundles bound ; 

 Dried fuel hoarded is his richest store, 

 And circling smoke obscures his little door : 

 "Whence creeping forth, to duty's call he yields, 

 And strolls the Crusoe of the lonely fields. 

 On whitethorns towering, and the leafless rose, 

 A frost-nipt feast in bright vermilion glows : 

 Where clustering sloes in glossy order rise, 

 He crops the loaded branch : a cumbrous prize ; 

 And o'er the flame the sputtering fruit he rests, 

 Placing green sods to seat his coming guests : 

 His guests by promise ; playmates young and gay ; 

 But ah ! fresh pastimes lure their steps away. 

 He sweeps his hearth, and homeward looks in vain, 

 Till, feeling disappointment's cruel pain, 



