a silvery light on the young, fresh, new-waked foliage and herbage; a
faint mist veils the blue distance of the landscape; but the pearly
shroud conceals not yonder troop of young blithe men, who, arranged in
green, after the olden fashion, each bearing the implements of archery,
and tripping lightly over the heath, are carolling in the joy of their
free spirits, while the fresh breeze brings to my ear most distinctly
the words of


THE ARCHER'S SONG.


Away!--away!--yon golden sun
Hath chas'd nights' shadows damp and dun;
Forth from his turfy couch, the lark
Hath sprung to meet glad day: and hark!
A mingling and delicious song
Breathes from the blithe-voiced plumy throng;
While, to the green-wood hasten _we_
Whose craft is, gentle archery!

Now swift we bound o'er dewy grass!
Rousing the red fox as we pass,
And startling linnet, merle, and thrush,
As recklessly the boughs we brush.
The _hunter's_ horn sings thro' the brakes.
And its soft lay apt echo takes;
But soon her sweet enamoured tone
Shall tell what song is all _our_ own!