A HAWTHORN STORY.

Pink and white in snowy shower,

Shade and light and leaf and thorn,

From the orchard gate the hawthorn bloom

Through diamond lattices scented the room,

When a child of the summer was born.

Golden green and creaking swing—

Boy and girl are playmates now.

‘Swing me higher—up to the sky!’

‘Nay; then I should lose you,’ he made reply,

Under the hawthorn bough.

Oh, perfume sweet!—she pulled the branch;

Flowers on her face fell tenderly;

At the orchard gate, ‘Good-night, dear love!’

Light in the lattice and stars above,

And ‘Take this bloom from me.’

Summer again, and a last good-bye,

Fair head resting in sunset ray;

Beyond the window and western glow

Fancy flutters to long ago:

‘Bring me one hawthorn spray.’

Childhood’s blossom and last good-bye—

‘Ah! think of the dawn in the Fatherland!’

Earthly morning—by flower-strewn bed,

Manhood’s tears from a drooping head

Trickling on still cold hand.

Oh! fragrance of the hawthorn tree,

Where’er his lonely footsteps fly,

Arise and waft her memory sweet;

White blossoms whisper: ‘White souls meet

Beyond the last good-bye!’

Printed and Published by W. & R. Chambers, 47 Paternoster Row, London, and 339 High Street, Edinburgh.