Nugae Modernae Morning thoughts, and midnight musings: consisting of casual reflections, egotisms, &c. In prose and verse. By Thomas Park |
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THE FILBERD-TREE.
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THE FILBERD-TREE.
A RUSTIC PLAINT.
I had a little comely cot,
As neat as cottage well could be;
And near it rose a garden-plot,
Where flourish'd one embowering tree—
Ah, 'twas a tree of trees to me!
As neat as cottage well could be;
And near it rose a garden-plot,
Where flourish'd one embowering tree—
Ah, 'twas a tree of trees to me!
To my neat cot it gave a name;
A Filberd was my favourite tree:
Who saw it prais'd it into fame;
Till ev'n my neighbours, envying me,
Confest—it was a goodly tree.
A Filberd was my favourite tree:
Who saw it prais'd it into fame;
Till ev'n my neighbours, envying me,
Confest—it was a goodly tree.
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Its graceful branches o'er my head
Wav'd wide an arched canopy,
And its broad leaves benignly spread
A fan of green embroidery,
That shaded all my family.
Wav'd wide an arched canopy,
And its broad leaves benignly spread
A fan of green embroidery,
That shaded all my family.
It was a screen from wind or sun,
A veil from curiosity;
And when its summer bloom was gone,
We still could feast, with social glee,
On its autumnal fruitery.
A veil from curiosity;
And when its summer bloom was gone,
We still could feast, with social glee,
On its autumnal fruitery.
E'en Winter oft has seen it gay,
With fretted frost-work spangled o'er;
While pendants droop'd from every spray,
And crimson budlets told once more
That Spring would all its charms restore.
With fretted frost-work spangled o'er;
While pendants droop'd from every spray,
And crimson budlets told once more
That Spring would all its charms restore.
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But I have left that comely cot
Where blossoms now my favourite tree;
And I have gain'd an ampler spot,
Which boasts of more variety,
And more enamours all but me.
Where blossoms now my favourite tree;
And I have gain'd an ampler spot,
Which boasts of more variety,
And more enamours all but me.
For what I once have help'd to rear,
Have treasur'd with a guardian eye,
To my weak heart must still be dear,
To my fond thought will oft be nigh—
Thee, Filberd, still for thee I sigh!
Have treasur'd with a guardian eye,
To my weak heart must still be dear,
To my fond thought will oft be nigh—
Thee, Filberd, still for thee I sigh!
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