XLIV. "For I am well nigh craz'd and wild to hear How boastful fathers taunt me with their breed, Saying, We shall not die nor disappear, But in these other selves, ourselves succeed, All of which boastings I am forced to read, Which bragging lovers have compil'd in rhyme. XLV. "Wherefore, when they are sweetly met o' nights, XLVI. Then next a merry Woodsman, clad in green, Stept vanward from his mates, that idly stood Each at his proper ease, as they had been And wore the livery of Robin Hood, Who wont in forest shades to dine and sup,So came this chief right frankly, and made good His haunch against his axe, and thus spoke up, Doffing his cap, which was an acorn's cup : XLVII. "We be small foresters and gay, who tend On trees, and all their furniture of green, Training the young boughs airily to bend, Birds' crafty dwellings as may hide them best, Will bear black poisonous berries to her nest, Lest man should cage the darlings of her breast. XLVIII. "We bend each tree in proper attitude, XLIX. "Sometimes we scoop the squirrel's hollow cell, And sometimes carve quaint letters on trees' rind, That haply some lone musing wight may spell Dainty Aminta, - Gentle Rosalind, Or chastest Laura, sweetly call'd to mind In sylvan solitudes, ere he lies down ; And sometimes we enrich gray stems, with twined And vagrant ivy, or rich moss, whose brown Burns into gold as the warm sun goes down. L. "And, lastly, for mirth's sake and Christmas cheer, We bear the seedling berries, for increase, LI. Then Saturn, with a frown: "Go forth, and fell Oak for your coffins, and thenceforth lay by To all sweet birds, and the blue peeps of sky But hence with the dead leaves, whene'er they fly, Which in the bleak air I would rather see, Than flights of the most tuneful birds that be. LII. "For I dislike all prime, and verdant pets, Preys with its worm-like roots, and daily frets Before the golden plumage 'gins to fall, And leaves the brown bleak limbs with few leaves on, Or bare like Nature in her skeleton. LIII. "For then sit I amongst the crooked boughs, Wooing dull Memory with kindred sighs; And there in rustling nuptials we espouse, Smit by the sadness in each other's eyes; And Time is reckon'd a discarded thing." |