 | The Collected Songs of Charles Mackay |  |
THE SILVER BIRCH.
I
Alone on the slope of the mountain it grew,And bathed its light tresses in glittering dew;
The bird on its boughs linger'd loving and long,
And the stream at its feet ever murmur'd in song;
It toy'd with the winds, it was happy and free;—
Oh! the silvery birch was a flourishing tree.
II
The lord of the mountain beheld it, and sigh'dThat so lovely a thing in the desert should hide.
“Come down from the wilderness, child of the storm!
“And I'll shield from its anger thy delicate form;
“I've a garden of pleasure more fitted for thee,
“And there thou shalt flourish, my beautiful tree.”
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III
He loosen'd its roots, and convey'd it away,To dwell in the bowers with the roses of May;
But it pined for the breezes that roam'd on the hill,—
For the fern of the rock, for the voice of the rill;
And drooping forlorn 'mid the pride of the lea,
It died in its grandeur, the beautiful tree.
| The Collected Songs of Charles Mackay | |