200 VOICES FROM THE WOODLANDS. 



iiorthern climate, I can offer a safe retreat to innocent 

 sheep, which lie down within my hollow trunk, and which 

 have taken the place of wild boars and ravening wolves. 

 I first uprose from the earth in the reign of Egbert, the 

 first king of England, and last of the Saxon Heptarchy. 

 Terrible conflicts were carried on around me, while yet a 

 sapling, between the Britons and fierce Danes, and wonder- 

 ful it seems to me, in looking back, that I was never trodden 

 to the earth. 



Upwards of a thousand years have rolled over my green 

 head. Generations even whole nations have been swept 

 from the face of the earth since my first emerging to the 

 light ; yet still I remain unscathed, and from one winter 

 to another have defied the howling blast, with my leafless 

 branches. Springs returned, waking up the primrose at my 

 roots and the snowdrop beside yon rushing stream, reclothing 

 me with leaves, and bidding the summer sun to ripen my 

 rich brown fruit. My tranquil existence, unlike that of 

 men, who are troubled ofttimes, though enjoined to dwell in 



