Classic Poem

Thy virtues, Laurel, sing not I,
Symbol of immortality;
Nor yet Dan Pol's wit-giving bays,
Oft eterniz'd in classic lays:
Nor Olive, by the ancients said
Was sacred to the blue-ey'd maid!
Nor fragrant Myrtle, which I ween,
—Nor wat'ry Lotos, which we're told,
A beauteous maiden was of old!
Nor Agnus Caftus, Dian's tree,
Emblem of pure virginity:

Nor Royal Oak, the forest's lord,
By Druid, Bard, or Brith ador'd;
Nor baleful Yew of magic power,
By Hecate cull'd at midnight hour:
Nor Willow, worn by love-sick youth,
Victim of constancy and truth!
A simpler theme is left for me,
To sing thy praises, Hawthorn tree!
Thee oft I've view'd when winter keen
Had rob'd thee of thy verdant green;
When all thy foliage, shrunk and faded,
Bestrew'd the earth that once they shaded;
Thy branching arms now naked left
Of leafy clothing quite bereft!
No more a canopy could form,
To shelter me from coming storm;
Nor screen me from the fervid ray,
Of warmth-bestowing god of day.
But now admitting each pale beam,
Which from his chariot hind-wheels gleam,
While in the bosom, lucid, clear,
Of a streamlet gliding near;
Thy branches droop, and there remain,
Transfix'd by winter's icy chain:
Whilst from thy boughs hang pendant, clear,
The frozen tears of winter drear;
And varied beams of rising day,
On the glittering frost-work play:
Now feel'st thou, vivifying Sun,
(His radiant course again begun,)
Young Spring restores thy latent powers,
Nourish'd by sun-ting'd April showers:
Luxuriantly thy branches spreading,
And leafy honours crown thy heading;
Thy crimson-tinted germs now,
Burst into blossoms on each bough!
Nor yet unprofitably gay,
These offsprings of the genial May,
For housewives (in their sweetness skill'd)
—Preserve their essence when distill'd;
And high stand they in good dame's favour,
For giving cordial nect'rous flavor!
But soon thy snowy glories fade,
By Sol's too fervid heat decay'd;
—Deceitful hectic tints they wear,
And die when loveliest they appear!
Now crimson haws our eyes delight,
Succeeding to thy blossoms white;
And bloom where they've admired been,
Emblem of life's progressive scene!
And if in clusters they appear,
—A piercing winter we may fear
Full oft I ween thou'st truant made
Of schoolboy, who beneath thy shade
Ripe berries cull'd, nor fear'd disaster,
From the stern rod-wielding master;
Secure in well-wrought fib or tale,
(Tho' oft' times fib and story fail)
But now in quick revolving year,
E'en glowing haws no more appear;
Autumnal tints thy leaves display,
The greens in yellow fade away;
While the brown's deep mellow shade,
Thy varied-tinted leaves invade,
'Till ence more owning winter's sway,
They fade, the chilling tyrant's prey!