POETRY.
EVENSONG.
In the heart of a Saxon forest I followed the winding ways, Deep-cushioned in moss and barred with the sunset's slanting rays, When out of the distance dim, where no end to the path was seen, Where the breath of the springtime hung like a motionless mist of green, I heard a sound of singing, majestic, sad, and clear, Rise from the forest deeps and float on the evening air.
I stopped and wondered and waited, as it nearer and nearer grew, Solemn and strange and sad, till at last came into view No vision of spirits dreamt of in weird old forest lore, Who roam the greenwood singing for ever and evermore, But six Teutonic maidens, tanned with the rain and sun, A burthen of billeted wood on the shoulders of every one.
How sturdily by they marched ! and the chanting passed away In the fragrant depths of the forest, and died with the dying day.
No spirits indeed! Yet I thought, as awhile I mused and stood, That a music more than earthly had passed through the darkening wood.
And I thought that the day to the morrow bequeathed in that solemn strain T. W. ROLLESTON.
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