SPIRIT OF THE TREES.

Let us wave our branches gently With a murmur low and loving; He will say we sang him quaintly Some old ballad, sweetly moving. 'Tis of all the ways the surest To awake a poet's fancies, For he loves these things the purest— Sigh of leaves, and scent of pansies. He has loved us, we will love him, And will cheer his hour of sadness, Spirits, wave your boughs above him To a measure of soft gladness.