NATURE.

THE GREENWOOD TREE.

WilliAM SHAKESPEARE.

UNDER the greenwood tree
Who loves to lie with me,
And tune his merry note

Unto the sweet bird's throat,
Come hither, come hither, come hither;

Here shall he see

Who doth ambition shun,
And loves to lie in the sun,
Seeking the food he eats,

And pleased with what he gets, Come hither, come hither, come hither!

Here shall he see

HARK!

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

HARK, Hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,

And Phoebus 'gins arise,
His steeds to water at those springs

On chaliced flowers that lies:
And winking Mary-buds begin

To ope their golden eyes ; With everything that pretty bin, My lady sweet, arise :

Arise, arise!

HIE AWAY.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

HIE away, hie away!
Over bank and over brae,
Where the copsewood is the greenest,
Where the fountains glisten sheenest,
Where the lady fern grows strongest,
Where the morning dew lies longest,
Where the blackcock sweetest sips it,
Where the fairy latest trips it:
Hie to haunts right seldom seen,
Lovely, lonesome, cool, and green,
Over bank and over brae,
Hie away, hie away!

MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS.

ROBERT BURNS.

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here;
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe,
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.
Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North,
The birthplace of valor, the country of worth ;
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,
The hills of the Highlands forever I love.

Farewell to the mountains high covered with snow;
Farewell to the straths and green valleys below;
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods ;
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here,
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;
Chasing the wild deer and following the roe,
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.

A VISIT FROM THE SEA.

ROBERT Louis STEVENSON.

Far from the loud sea-beaches,

Where he goes fishing and crying,
Here in the inland garden,

Why is the sea-gull flying ?

Here are no fish to dive for:

Here is the corn and lea;
Here are the green trees rustling.

Hie away home to sea !

Fresh is the river water,

And quiet among the rushes ; This is no home for the sea-gull,

But for the rooks and thrushes.

Pity the bird that has wandered !

Pity the sailor ashore !
Hurry him home to the ocean,

Let him come here no more!

High on the sea-cliff ledges

The white gulls are trooping and crying; Here among rooks and roses,

Why is the sea-gull flying ?

THE BROOK.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

I COME from haunts of coot and hern;

I make a sudden sally,
And sparkle out among the fern

To bicker down a valley.

By thirty hills I hurry down,

Or slip between the ridges ;