HAWTHORN. 
55 
Along this lovely shore ; 
To thy foot around 
With his long arms wound 
A wild vine has mantled thee o’er. 
“ In armies twain, 
Red ants have ta’en 
Their fortress beneath thy stock ; 
And in clefts of thy trunk 
Tiny bees have sunk 
A cell where honey they lock. 
“ 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. 
***** 
“ Gentle hawthorn, thrive, 
And, forever alive, 
May’st thou blossom as now in thy prime ; 
By the wind unbroke, 
And the thunder-stroke, 
Unspoiled by the axe of time.’ 
Chaucer thus sings of it: 
Furth goth all the Courte, both most and lest, 
To fetche the flouris freshe, and braunche and blome 
And namely hauthorne brought both page and grome. 
With freshe garlandis partly blew and white, 
And than rejoisin in their grete delight. 
“ Amongst the many buds proclaiming May 
(Decking the meads in holiday array, 
Striving who shall surpass in bravery) 
Mark the fair blooming of the hawthorn tree ; 
Who, finely clothed in a robe of white, - 
Feeds full the wanton eye with May’s delight, 
