FORESTER'S SONG.

FORESTER! leave thy woodland range,
And hie thee hence with me;

For brighter scenes and pleasures strange,
Forsake thy greenwood tree.

Come, gather thy cloak above the knee,
And take thy tall staff down,

I'll shew thee what delights they be
That dwell in tow'r and town.

Nay, stranger, check thy bright bay steed,

To sojourn with me here;

And turn him forth at large to feed,

Amongst these dappled deer;

And thou, while summer skies are clear, Within my greenwood bower,

Shalt scorn the pleasures once so dear,

That dwell in town and tow'r.

Well

may

I find a better home,

My steed a warmer stall,

I know full many a lordly dome,
Full many a palace hall;

Where stately rows of columns tall,

The fretted roof sustain,

Then, Forester, yield thee to my call, And follow me o'er the plain.

Doth lofty roof delight thy eye,

Or stately pillar please?

Look, stranger, at yon azure sky,

And pillars such as these

Where, wreathing round majestic trees,

The verdant ivy clings;

The pillar'd roofs, the peasant sees,

Are fit to shelter kings.

O, who would to the greenwood roam, To hear the hautboy's sound,

To see the glittering goblets foam,

While mellow pledge goes round;

Then, while our cares in wine are drown'd,

The precious stake to hold;

And find our varying fortunes crown'd

With heaps of yellow gold?

Stranger! the woodman's frugal fare,

No sickly riots stain;

Nor ever hautboy's artful air

Might match yon throstle's strain :

And, if the stores of ample gain,
Thy useful avarice crave,

Go, stranger, teach the ruddy grain

O'er yonder wastes to wave.

Nay, rather to my lady love,
My courtly lays I'll sing;
And in my helmet wear her glove,
When gallants ride the ring:
Or foremost in the battle spring,
Where charging squadrons meet;
And all my warlike trophies bring
An offering to her feet.

Falsehood in beauty lies conceal'd,
Guilt haunts the deadly fight;
Here woods a harmless warfare yield,
And maids their true-love plight-

Such simple joys of rustic wight,
To thee 'twere vain to tell;

But heavily fall the shades of night—
Now, stranger, fare thee well.

ELEGY

ON A FAVORITE CROWN-BIRD.

LAMENT all ye birds, and ye quadruped train, Who dwell in the branches, or rest on the plain; All ye, who dwell under the shade of the tree, Come hither, and mingle your sorrows with me; For gone is your glory, and fallen your pride, And faded your glory, since Cressida died.

Lament him, for graceful and tall was his mien, And stately his step on the smooth shaven green; And royally high on his head did he bear

The turban that mark'd him the king of the air; And bright in the sun did his gay plumage shine, Then hasten, and mingle your sorrow with mine.