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OCTOBER. 279 



How often in this weary world, I pine and long to flee, 

 And lay me down, as I was wont, under the greenwood-tree. 



The greenwood ! the greenwood ! to the bold and happy boy, 

 Thy realm of shades is a fairy-land of wonder and of joy. 

 Oh, for that freshness of the heart, that pure and vivid thrill, 

 As he listens to the woodland cries, and wanders at his will ! 



The youth delights in thy leafy gloom, and thy winding 



walks to rove, 

 When his simple thought is snared and caught in the subtle 



webs of love ; 

 Manhood, with high and restless hope, a spirit winged with 



flame, 

 Plans in thy bower his path to power, to affluence, and fame. 



The old man loves thee, when his soul dreams of the world 



no more, 

 But his heart is full of its gathered wealth, and he counts it 



o'er and o'er ; 

 When his race is run, his prize is won or lost, until the 



bound 

 Of the world unknown is overthrown, and his master-hope 



is crown'd. 



The greenwood ! the greenwood ! oh, be it mine to lie 



In the depth of thy mossy solitude, when summer fills the 



sky. 

 With pleasant sound and scents around, a tome of ancient 



lore, 

 And a pleasant friend with me to bend and turn its pages o'er. 



W.H. 



