242 
HAWTHORN. 
The same .— anon. 
Fair hawthorn flowering, 
With green shade bowering 
Along the lovely shore; 
To thy foot around 
With his long arm wound 
A wild vine has mantled thee o’er. 
In merry spring-tide, 
When to woo his bride, 
The nightingale comes again, 
Thy boughs among 
He warbles his song. 
That lightens a lover’s pain. 
Mid thy topmost leaves 
His nest he weaves 
Of moss and the satin fine, 
W here his callow brood 
Shall chirp at their food, 
Secure from each hand but mine. 
Gentle hawthorn, thrive, 
And, for ever alive, 
May’st thou blossom as now in thy prime; 
By the wind unbroke, 
And the thunderstroke, 
Unspoiled by the axe of time. 
