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7he Hawthorn. 
—summer’s scented harbinger! how tenderly both young and 
old watch its growth, from when, in the beginning of April, 
“Fringing the forest’s devious edge, 
Half-robed, appears the hawthorn hedge; 
Or to the distant eye displays 
Weakly green its budding sprays; 
next, with what delight do all observe that 
“ The hawthorn every day 
Spreads some little show of May;” 
and then what a warmth of summer happiness seems to flood 
all hearts! when, no longer doubtingly, we dare exclaim with 
Warton : 
“’T is May, the Grace—confess’d she stands, 
With branch of hawthorn in her hands; 
Lo! near her trip the lightsome dews, 
Their wings all ting’d in Iris’ hues; 
With whom the powers of Flora play, 
And paint with pansies all the way. ” 
How exquisitely, and with what an under-current of pathos, 
has MacCarthy portrayed these summer longings! how much 
is suggested that words have left unsaid ! List how one of the 
sweetest melodies of the century begins: 
“ Ah! my heart is weary, waiting— 
Waiting for the May : 
Waiting for the pleasant rambles 
Where the fragrant hawthorn brambles, 
With the woodbine alternating, 
Scent the dewy way. 
Ah! my heart is weary, waiting— 
Waiting for the May!” 
The common colour of these delicate blossoms is white, 
frequently blushed with pink ; but there is a garden variety 
with double flowers of a deep red. Poets constantly allude to 
the petals of the bloom as summer snow, or as scented snow, 
because of the manner in which the wind often scatters com¬ 
plete clouds of them over the pathways and about the road¬ 
sides, and also because of their fleecy, snow-like look amid 
surrounding green hedges. 
“ Between the leaves, the silver whitethorn shows 
Its dewy blossoms, pure as mountain snows.” 
