180 CLASSICAL MODERN POETRY. 



'Twere vain to mourn the hopes that fled 



When fortune ceased to smile ; 

 Yet o'er the scenes she loved to tread 



I would have roam'd awhile 

 'Twould sooth me, where in other days 



With other thoughts I ranged, 

 On wood and hill and tower to gaze, 



And find them still unchanged ! 

 But now a tyrant's stern command 



Constrains me hence to roam ; 

 Then, O farewell, my father-land, 



Farewell, my only home ! 

 Whate'er of valley, or of hill, 



In other lands I see, 

 That will I deem the loveliest place 



That leads my thoughts to thee. 



REV. T. DALE. 



THE WOODMAN. 



The Woodman with his keen bright axe, 



Throughout the forest goes ; 

 Its sound the leafy silence breaks, 



Trees fall before its blows. 

 He careth not though summer green, 

 On leaves and blossoms there is seen ; 

 He careth not for winter's cold, 

 But onward hews, the Woodman bold. 



The forest king, the mighty oak 



He levels with the ground ; 

 Its glories fall with every stroke 



That through the glades resound, 

 Until at length so low 'tis laid, 

 That twigs long dwarf 'd within its shade, 

 Do o'er it wave their leaflets free ; 

 The Woodman bold what careth he. 



The poplar, lady of the wood, 



Is doom'd his prey to be, 

 He snaps the willow by the flood, 



Nor spares the beechen tree. 



