Upon a hill, which rears itself midst plains extending wide,
Fair flourishes a lofty oak in beauty's blooming pride;
This lofty oak in solitude its branches wide expands,
All lonesome on the cheerless height like sentinel it stands.
Whom can it lend its friendly shade, should Sol with fervour glow?
And who can shelter it from harm, should tempests rudely blow?
No bushes green, entwining close, here deck the neighbouring ground,
No tufted pines beside it grow, no osiers thrive around.
Sad e'en to trees their cheerless fate in solitude if grown,
And bitter, bitter is the lot for youth to live alone!
Though gold and silver much is his, how vain the selfish pride!
Though crowned with glory's laurelled wreath, with whom that crown divide?
When I with an acquaintance meet he scarce a bow affords,
And beauties, half saluting me, but grant some transient words.
On some I look myself with dread, whilst others from me fly,
But sadder still the uncherished soul when Fate's dark hour draws nigh;
Oh! where my aching heart relieve when griefs assail me sore?
My friend, who sleeps in the cold earth, comes to my aid no more!
No relatives, alas! of mine in this strange clime appear,
No wife impart's love's fond caress, sweet smile, or pitying tear;
No father feels joy's thrilling throb, as he our transport sees;
No gay and sportive little ones come clambering on my knees;—
Take back all honours, wealth and fame, the heart they cannot move,
And give instead the smiles of friends, the tender look of love!