THE WOODLAND. 



By Stephen P. Beownell. 



In solitude to-day I muse 



Within the silent shade 

 Of woodland dense, whose wilds infuse 



Love for its lonely glade. 



Upon a moss-clothed log I sit, 



Where flows a gentle stream; 

 From tree to tree the warblers flit 



Like fairies in a dream. 



The branching tree-tops rise o'erhead, 



Their giant arms extending; 

 While leaves of purple, green and red 



Like jewels hang depending. 



So still, so beautiful, so grand, 



This wild life of the wood! 

 Not crowded street nor ocean strand 



Can waken such a mood! 



But hark! What is that jarring sound 

 Which mars the veery's song? 



The plowman shouts from yonder ground 

 To urge his team along. 



O woodland mine! thy silence sweet, 

 Earth's toil doth yet invade; . 



And deeper still must I retreat 

 To muse in thy lone glade. 



