ARBOR DA Y MANUAL. 
IO 
THOUGHTS ON THE FOREST. 
W ELCOME, pure thoughts ! welcome, ye silent groves ! 
These guests, these courts, my soul most dearly loves; 
Now the winged people of the sky shall sing 
My cheerful anthems to the gladsome Spring; 
And if contentment be a stranger,— then 
I’ll ne’er look for it, but in heaven again. 
Sir Henry Wotton. 
Oh ! come to the woodlands, ’t is joy to behold, 
The new waken’d buds in our pathway unfold; 
For Spring has come forth, and the bland southern breeze 
Is telling the tale to the shrub and the trees, 
Which, anxious to show her 
The duty they owe her, 
Have decked themselves gayly in emerald and gold. 
I love thee in the Spring, 
Earth-crowning forest! when amid the shades 
The gentle South first waves her odorous wing, 
And joy fills all the glades. 
In the hot Summer time. 
With deep delight, the somber aisles I roam, 
Or, soothed by some cool brook’s melodious chime 
Rest on thy verdant loam. 
But O, when Autumn’s hand 
Hath marked thy beauteous foliage for the grave. 
How doth thy splendor, as entranced I stand, 
My willing heart enslave ! 
Wm. Jewett Pabodie. 
Hail, old patrician trees so great and good ! 
Hail, ye plebeian under-wood ! 
Where the poetic birds rejoice, 
And for their quiet nests and plenteous food 
Pay with their grateful voice. 
Hail, the poor Muses’ richest manor-seat! 
Ye country houses and retreat, 
Which all the happy gods so love,' 
That for you oft they quit their bright and great 
Metropolis above. 
