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To an high mountaine's top he with them went,
Where thickest grasse did cloathe the open hills;
They now amongst the woods and thickets ment,
Now in the valleies, wandring at their wills,
Spread themselves farre abroad thro' each descent;
Some on the soft greene grasse feeding their fills,
Some clamoring through the hollow cliffes on hy,
Nibble the bushie shrubs which growe thereby.
Others the utmost boughs of trees doe crop,
And brouze the woodbine twigges that freshly bud;
This with full bit doth catch the utmost top
Of some soft willow, or new growen stud;
This with sharp teeth the bramble leaves doth lop,
And chaw the tender prickles in her cud,
The whiles another high doth overlooke
Her own like image in a christall brooke.
How beautiful, too, is Forest scenery now! But it is always beautiful—whether in budding and vernal Spring—green and leafy Summer—many-tinted Autumn—or snow-wreathed Winter. Yet Summer is the time of all others when one fancies how blithely Robin Hood and his merry men lived in the bonny greenwood; and we feel more than ever the oppressive gloomy closeness of the thickly-peopled town. It is in glad Summer weather that we are most ready to exclaim—
Oh, come from the city, and live with me,
Merrily under the greenwood tree;
Where the antlered stag is the lord of all,
And the old trees shelter the squirrel small;
And the birds are filling the breezy air
