77 
0 ! come to the woodlands, ’tis joy to behold 
The new-waken’d buds in our pathway unfold ; 
For spring has come forth, and the bland southern breeze 
Is telling the tale to the shrubs and the trees, 
Which, anxious to show her 
The duty they owe her. 
Have deck’d themselves gaily in em’rald and gold. 
But though beautiful each, sure the fairest of all 
Is yon birch, that is waving so graceful and tall: 
Flow tender yet bright is the tint that is flung 
O’er its delicate spray, which so lightly is hung 
That like breeze of the mountain, 
Or gush of the fountain, 
It owns not of rest or of slumber the thrall. 
Yet’t is said that in climes o’er the far northern sea, 
Of its sweet-scented leaves, though so restless they be. 
The mother a couch for her infant doth spread; 
And sure while she sings by his soft leafy bed, 
And watcheth his slumbers, 
The theme of her numbers 
Is—the gem of the forest, the bonnie birch-tree. 
