JUNE. 151 



And hall, and cot, and valley-stream, 

 Were hallowed by the minstrel's dream. 



Then musing in the woodland nook, 

 Each flower was as a written-book, 

 Recalling, by memorial quaint, 

 The holy deed of martyred saint ; 

 The patient faith, which, unsubdued, 

 Grew mightier through fire and blood. 

 One blossom, 'mid its leafy shade, 

 The virgin's purity portrayed ; 

 And one, with cup all crimson dyed, 

 Spoke of a Saviour crucified : 

 And rich the store of holy thought 

 That little forest-flower brought. 

 Doctrine and miracle, whate'er 

 We draw from books was treasured there. 

 Faith in the wild wood's tangled bound 

 A blessed heritage had found ; 

 And Charity and Hope were seen 

 In the lone isle and wild ravine. 

 Then pilgrims in the forest brown 

 Slow wandering on from town to town, 

 Halting 'mid mosses green and dank, 

 Breathed each a prayer before they drank 

 From waters by the pathway side. 

 Then duly morn and even-tide, 

 Before those ancient crosses gray, 

 Now mouldering silently away, 

 Aged and young devoutly bent 

 In simple prayer, how eloquent ! 

 For each good gift man then possessed 

 Demanded blessing and was blest. 



What though in our pride's selfish mood. 

 We hold those times as dark and rude, 



