The aggregate effect produced by forest scenery is magnificent--the deep retiring woodland, the waving of innumerable branches, the majestic columns which uphold them, the mingled tints and hues, the dancing of the lights and shadows on the ground, the long, long vistas which extend far as the eye can reach, when the view of external nature is shut out, when there is neither a green meadow nor distant hill to be seen, nor even a fence nor railing, nothing which betokens the hand of man; but noble trees around, and a magnificent canopy of mingled boughs; when not a sound is heard except the rustling of the wind in the topmost branches, or perchance the plaintive voice of the ring-dove, which loves to build her nest in solitary places. But the tree, which like the Beech of the Frith Common, stands alone, can best be understood. The mind can rest upon it, and the eye can embrace its beautiful proportions. Wisdom may be gained by him who loves to read the ample page of nature, while musing beneath its branches, for every leaf is an open book, every tender bud tells much concerning the goodness of that Being whose beneficence is equally conspicuous in the smallest, as in the mightiest of created things. This noble tree grows on a sunny hill side, And merry birds sing round it all the day long; Oh the joy of my childhood, at evening tide, To sit in its shadow and list the birds' song! No sound then was heard but the gush of the rill, Or the woodpecker tapping some hollow beech-tree; While the sun shed his last purple glow on the hill, And the last hum was heard of the home-loving bee. But now far away from that sunny hill side, 'Mid the stir and the din of the proud city's throng, I think, is that tree standing yet in its pride? Are the echoes still woke by the merry birds' song? They tell me the woodcutter's hatchet was heard, To thin the tall trees where they drooped o'er the lea; But he marr'd not the home of the wandering bird, The haunt of my childhood, my own beechen-tree. May peace in the cot of that woodman abide, And grateful birds sing to him all the day long, May his steps long be firm on the sunny hill's side. And echo respond to the voice of his song. I can think of that tree, where no green trees are seen, 'Mid the city's loud din, for the spirit is free, And dear to me still is the wild daisied green. Where thy branches are waving, my own beechen-tree. [Illustration: THE SALCEY OAK] The Salcey Oak "Thou wert a bauble once, a cup and ball, Which babes might play with, and the thievish jay, Seeking her food, with ease might have purloin'd The auburn nut that held thee, swallowing down Thy yet close-folded latitude of boughs, And all thy embryo vastness at a gulph."--COWPER.