Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/The Hawthorn

The Hawthorn.

On Summer's breast the hawthorn shines In all the lily's bloom,'Mid slopes where the evening flock reclines, Where glows the golden broom.

When yellow Autumn decks the plain. The hawthorn's boughs are green,Amid the ripening fields of grain, In emerald brightness seen.

A night of frost, a day of wind, Have strips the forest bare:The hawthorn too that blast shall find, Nor shall that spoiling spare.

But red with fruit, that hawthorn bough, Though leafless yet will shine;The blackbird for its hues shall know, As lapwing knows the vine.

Be thus thy youth as lilies gay, Thy manhood vigorous green;And thus let fruit bedeck thy spray, 'Mid age's leafless scene.