ON the old forest, bright the sunrays play,
And from the boughs hang, tinging the green leaves
With golden light that downward interweaves,
Past branch and stem finding itself a way;
And on the greensward, and among the fern,
Some trace of sunshine still we can discern,
A sunbeam's scattered droppings gone astray
Among the wild-flowers, where they nestle close
Within the long grass, or the woodland moss,
Making for Earth a dress with colours gay.
Oh! on our pathway thus may sunshine fall,
And like the little flowers, our hopes still bloom,—
A share of it at least, if not it all,—
To light the darkness and to cheer the gloom.