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LINES, SUGGESTED BY A HAWTHORN IN THE BOTANIC GARDENS, SYDNEY.
As some brave soldier who has lost
His youth and strength 'mid battle tost,
Finds him, when age displays its frost,
A castaway.
From home and kindred's kindly cheer
By doom or chance an exile drear;
Even such, old tree, the fate you bear,
A sylvan stray.
Thy shrivelled stem, thy puny fruit.
The aspect of thy leafy suit,
Tell in this soil thy pining root
Finds not its home.
While Fancy hears thy leaves among,
The tale where memories are sung,
Of the old lands wherefrom you sprung,
Far o'er the foam.
