CLASSICAL MODERN POETRY. 1ST. 



The forest's pride he layeth low, 

 He nippeth all things that do grow : 

 The little shrub, the tree so old 

 He smiteth all the Woodman bold. 



He leaveth not the brier-bush, 



He spareth not the rose, 

 Whene'er he comes the winds shall rush 



No longer through green boughs. 

 He taketh all, he spareth none, 

 He leaves the tree-land bare and lone, 

 Without an elm to rest beneath 

 The stalwart Woodman's name is DEATH ! 



FORGET ME NOT. 



Forget me not when I am gone, 



I grieve to cause one sigh to thee, 

 But ere thou seest to-morrow's dawn, 



Thou wilt have said ' farewell ' to me. 

 When much-loved friends shall bid adieu 



To him they never more may see, 

 'Twill cheer the last, sad, lingering view, 



To know that thou wilt think of me. 



Tho' years of sorrow pass away 



Ere we can hope to meet again ; 

 Sure as yon pale moon sheds her ray. 



Unalter'd shall my truth remain : 

 When friendship's voice so sweetly dear 



Shall loudly chant in praise of thee, 

 Then will my spirit hover near, 



And gently whisper, "Think of me." 



May guardian angels never cease 



O'er thee their constant watch to keep; 

 May painful thoughts ne'er wound thy peace, 



Nor anguish make thy eyes to weep : 

 When heaven hangs out her orbs of light 



And thou in secret bend the knee, 

 Let memory tell thee of this night, 



And with affection think of me. E. F. 



