Among the beautiful pictures
  That hang on Memory’s wall,
Is one of a dim old forest,
  That seemeth best of all;
Not for its gnarled oaks olden,
  Dark with the mistletoe;
Not for the violets golden,
  That sprinkle the vale below;
Not for the milk-white lilies,
  That lean from the fragrant hedge,
Coquetting all day with the sunbeams,
  And stealing their golden edge;
Not for the vines on the upland,
  Where the bright red berries rest,
Nor the pinks, nor the pale, sweet cowslip,
  It seemeth to me the best.

I once had a little brother,
  With eyes that were dark and deep;
In the lap of that dim old forest,
  He lieth in peace asleep: 
Light as the down of the thistle,
  Free as the winds that blow,
We roved there the beautiful summers,
  The summers of long ago;
But his feet on the hills grew weary,
  And, one of the autumn eves,
I made for my little brother,
  A bed of the yellow leaves.

Sweetly his pale arms folded
  My neck in a meek embrace,
As the light of immortal beauty
  Silently covered his face;
And when the arrows of sunset
  Lodged in the tree tops bright,
He fell, in his saintlike beauty,
  Asleep by the gates of light. 
Therefore, of all the pictures
  That hang on Memory’s wall,
The one of the dim old forest
  Seemeth the best of all.

XI.  THE MORNING ORATORIO. (90)

Wilson Flagg, 1806-1884, was born in Beverly, Mass.  He pursued his academical course in Andover, at Phillips Academy, and entered Harvard College, but did not graduate.  His chief Works are:  “Studies in the Field and Forest,” “The Woods and Byways of New England,” and “The Birds and Seasons of New England.” ###

Nature, for the delight of waking eyes, has arrayed the morning heavens in the loveliest hues of beauty.  Fearing to dazzle by an excess of delight, she first announces day by a faint and glimmering twilight, then sheds a purple tint over the brows of the rising morn, and infuses a transparent ruddiness throughout the atmosphere.  As daylight widens, successive groups of mottled and rosy-bosomed clouds assemble on the gilded sphere, and, crowned with wreaths of fickle rainbows, spread a mirrored flush over hill, grove, and lake, and every village spire is burnished with their splendor.

At length, through crimsoned vapors, we behold the sun’s broad disk, rising with a countenance so serene that every eye may view him ere he arrays himself in his meridian brightness.  Not many people who live in towns are aware of the pleasure attending a ramble near the woods and orchards at daybreak in the early part of summer.  The drowsiness we feel on rising from our beds is gradually dispelled by the clear and healthful breezes of early day, and we soon experience an unusual amount of vigor and elasticity.