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Updated: May 5, 2025
Motion was in their days, rest in their slumbers, And cheerfulness the handmaid of their toil: Nor yet too many, nor too few their numbers, Corruption could not make their hearts her soil: The lust which stings, the splendour which encumbers, With the free foresters divide no spoil: Serene, not sullen, were the solitudes, Of this unsighing people of the woods.
And tall, and strong, and swift of foot were they, Beyond the dwarfing city's pale abortions, Because their thoughts had never been the prey Of care or gain; the green woods were their portions Simple they were, not savage; and their rifles, Though very true, were yet not used for trifles. Serene, not sullen, were the solitudes Of this unsighing people of the woods. Byron.
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