THE SYCAMORE.
“This sycamore, oft musical with bees,
Such tents the patriarchs loved.”
Coleridge.
Bright is the scene, and lovely!—not a cloud
Darkens the heavens, nor wind disturbs the air;
Only I hear the blackbird piping loud,
Or throstle carol in his leafy lair:
Peace sits enthroned, the ruler everywhere.
And thou, huge sycamore, hast summer bowers
Of ease and plenty. There the yellow bee
Revels at will, and wantons 'midst thy flowers,
With fragrance, and the wild birds' minstrelsy.
Thy gifts are heavenly, and to heaven ascend—
Earth's hostage to the sunlight and the breeze;
A richer burthen do the seasons lend
Than silks of monarchs from the Indian seas—
And life and love are thine, queen of the forest trees.
