MARY HOWITT.

HE Woodpecker green he has not his abiding
Where the owls and the bats from the day-

light are hiding;

Where the bright mountain-streams glide on
rock-beds away,

The dark water-ousel may warble and play;
In the sedge of the river the reed-sparrow build;
And the pewitt among the brown clods of the field;
The sea-gull may scream on the breast of the tide ;
On the foam-crested billows the petrel may ride;
But the Woodpecker asketh nor river nor sea;
Give him but the old forest, and old forest-tree,
And he'll leave to the proud lonely eagle the height
Of the mist-shrouded precipice splintered and white;
And he'll leave to the gorcock the heather and fern,
And the lake of the valley to woodcock and hern;
To the sky-lark he'll leave the wide fields of the air,
The sunshine and rainbow ne'er tempted him there.
The greenwood for him is the place of his rest,
And the broad-branching tree is the home he loves best.
Let us go to the haunt of the Woodpecker green,

In those depths of the wood there is much to be seen.

There the wild-rose and woodbine weave fairy-land

bowers,

And the moth-mullein grows with its pale yellow flowers ;
There the hum of the bees through the noon-day is heard,
And the chirp, and the cry, and the song of the bird;
There up the tree-trunk, like a fly on the wall,
To pick the grey moss, runs the tree-creeper small;
There the wren golden-crested, so lovely to see,
Hangs its delicate nest from the twigs of the tree;
And there coos the ring-dove-oh, who would not go,
That voice of the wood to hear, dreamy and low!
Yes, come to the wood-to the Woodpecker's tree,
There is joy 'mong the green leaves for thee and for me!

Hark! hear you that laughter so loud and so long?— Again now!—it drowneth the wood-linnet's song! 'Tis the Woodpecker laughing!--the comical elf! His soul must be merry to laugh to himself!— And now we are nearer-speak low-be not heard! Though he's merry at heart he's a shy, timid bird. Hark !-now he is tapping the old, hollow tree :One step farther on-now look upward—that's he! Oh, the exquisite bird !—with his downward-hung head. With his richly dyed greens-his pale yellow and red! On the gnarled tree-trunk with its sober-toned gray, What a beautiful mingling of colours are they!

Ah, the words you have spoken have frightened the birdFor by him the lowest of whispers were heard;

Or a footfall as light as the breezes, that pass

Scarcely bending the flowers, he perceives on the grass.