ARBOR DA Y MANUAL. 
87 
THE PRETTY ROSE-TREE. 
B EING weary of love, I flew to the grove, 
And chose me a tree of the fairest; 
Saying, “ Pretty rose-tree, thou my mistress shalt be, 
L’ll worship each bud that thou bearest, 
For the hearts of this world are hollow. 
And fickle the smiles we follow; 
And ’tis sweet, when all their witcheries pall, 
To have a pure love to fly to : 
So, my pretty rose-tree, thou my mistress shalt be, 
And the only one now 1 shall sigh to.” 
When the beautiful hue of thy cheek through the dew 
Of morning is bashfully peeping, 
“ Sweet tears,” I shall say (as I brush them a\yay), 
“ At least there’s no art in this weeping. 
Although thou shouldest die to-morrow, 
’Twill not be from pain or sorrow, 
And the thorns of thy stem are not like them 
With which hearts wound each other: 
So, my pretty rose-tree, thou my mistress shalt be, 
And I’ll ne’er again sigh to another.” 
Thomas Moore. 
ECHO. 
I love the proud grandeur o( the old forest trees, 
With their leaves whispering softly their thoughts to the breeze ; 
And I love the bright streamlet that flows at their feet, 
Whose low distant murmurs faint echoes repeat, 
The}'- say that an echo dwells here in the dell, 
Who every fond wish of the young heart can tell. 
Hark, the echo ! hark, the echo ! 
Who every fond wish of the young heart can tell. 
I love the bright woodland, where the. echoes are found, 
Where the rocks and the hills with sweet music resound, 
As the echoes awake to the shepherd’s shrill horn, 
And the notes of the thrush on the breezes are borne. 
1 love the green fields, and the fragrant wild flowers, 
That drink with the dew generous light from above. 
Here’s an echo, here’s an echo, 
Here’s an echo that wakes to the voice of my love. 
L. V. Hall. 
