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THE ARBUTUS.
Some deep empurpled as the hyacine,
Some, as the rubine laughing sweetly red,
Some like fair emerauds, not yet well ripened:
And them emongst were some of burnisht gold,
Which did themselves emongst 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 Atumn'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 affright 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.
