214 
THE ARBUTUS. 
Some deep empurpled as the hyacine, 
Some, as the rubine laughing sweetly red. 
Some like faire emerauds, not yet well ripened: 
And them emongst were some of burnisht gold, 
Which did themselves amongst the leaves enfold. 
As lurking from the vew of covetous guest. 
That the weake boughes with so rich load opprest 
Did bow adowne as overburdened. 
Spenser. 
Like faithful Lovers, that full true are seen 
Though fickle fortune frown, and work them woe. 
So those fair trees still wear their summer-green. 
When Autumn’s breath hath yellowed, and laid low 
The vesture of the bare and shivering grove. 
Where Winter’s bitter winds might all unhindered rove. 
Why should we grieve, that to the chilly air 
Of our beloved, yet dim and wintery land 
The luxuries of other climes deny 
Their stately growth ?—What though we may not roam 
’Mid groves where orange-blossoms perfume breathe 
From the same branch where hangs the golden fruit; 
Have we not, even ’neath our bleakest sky, 
A tree as beautiful—whom snow, nor frost. 
Nor the loud-chiding, many-voiced wind 
May e’er afiright or wither?—Know ye not 
The verdant Arbutus? — which, ever fair 
The whole four seasons round, is loveliest now. 
When Winter’s scowling brow hath driven all 
The frailer blossoms from the leaf-strewn earth. 
