CHAPTEE XVIII. 



A SMALL GBOUP OP TBEES. 



We are small, and we grow low, 

 Where the rippling streamlets flow ; 

 Or on crags with moss o'ergrown, 

 Or on moors 'mid heath and stone, 

 Or where quivering boughs wave lightly, 

 And the wood-lark singeth blithely. 

 Yet not sweeter singeth she, 

 Than our blended voice of glee. 

 And ofttimes the wind his ride 

 Stoppeth where we love to bide ; 

 Gathering fragrance from each flower, 

 In this blithe and gladsome hour. 



METHOUGHT I heard sweet voices in a glen, very musical, 

 yet quiet, and such as the listening ear might readily forego, 



