“Why come from you leaf-shaded hill, A suppliant at my door?— Why ask of me to whip poor Will? And is Will really poor? “If poverty’s his crime, let mirth From out his heart be driven: That is the deadliest sin on earth, And never is forgiven! “Art Will himself?—It must be so— I learn it from thy moan, For none can feel another’s woe As deeply as his own. “Yet wherefore strain thy tiny throat, While other birds repose? What means thy melancholy note? The mystery disclose. “Still ‘whip-poor-will!’—Art thou a sprite, From unknown regions sent To wander in the gloom of night, And ask for punishment? “Is thine a conscience sore beset With guilt—or, what is worse, Hast thou to meet writs, duns, and debt— No money in thy purse? “If this be thy hard fate indeed, Ah well may’st thou repine: The sympathy I give, I need— The poet’s doom is thine. “Art thou a lover, Will?—Hast proved The fairest can deceive? Thine is the lot of all who’ve loved Since Adam wedded Eve. “Hast trusted in a friend, and seen No friend was he in need? A common error—men still lean Upon as frail a reed. “Hast thou, in seeking wealth or fame, A crown of brambles won? O’er all the earth ’tis just the same With every mother’s son! “Hast found the world a Babel wide, Where man to mammon stoops? Where flourish arrogance and pride, While modest merit droops? “What, none of these?—Then, whence thy pain, To guess it who’s the skill? Pray have the kindness to explain Why I should whip poor Will? “Dost merely ask thy just desert? What, not another word?— Back to the woods again, unhurt— I will not harm thee, bird! “But treat thee kindly—for my nerves, Like thine, have penance done; Treat every man as he deserves— Who shall ’scape whipping?’—None. “Farewell, poor Will—not valueless This lesson by thee given: ‘Keep thine own counsel, and confess Thyself alone to heaven!’”—MORRIS. We cannot close our description without one more extract from the delightful volume before us. THE OAK. “Woodman, spare that tree! Touch not a single bough! In youth it sheltered me, And I’ll protect it now. ’Twas my forefather’s hand That placed it near his cot; There, woodman, let it stand, Thy axe shall harm it not! “That old familiar tree, Whose glory and renown Are spread o’er land and sea, And wouldst thou hack it down? Woodman, forbear thy stroke! Cut not its earth-bound ties; Oh spare that aged oak, Now towering to the skies! “When but an idle boy I sought its grateful shade; In all their gushing joy Here, too, my sisters played. My mother kissed me here; My father pressed my hand— Forgive this foolish tear, But let that old oak stand!