] 86 VOICES FROM THE WOODLANDS. 



" No rustic song is on his tongue, 



No whistle on his lips ; 

 But with a quiet thoughtfulness, 



His trusty tool he grips, 

 And stroke on stroke keeps hacking out 



The bright and flying chips. 



" Stroke after stroke, with frequent dint, 



He spreads the fatal gash ; 



Till lo ! the remnant fibres rend, 



With harsh and sudden crash, 



And on the dull resounding turf 



The jarring branches lash ! 



" Oh ! now the forest-trees may sigh : 



The ash, the poplar tall, 

 The elm, the birch, the drooping beech, 

 The aspens one and all, 

 With solemn groan, 

 And hollow moan, 

 Lament a comrade's fall." 



Hood. 



