That the force of the Ages withstood.
Little sprig from the mother-land!—
It is pleasant and cosy to have you here,
When the festive and lonely waiting stand
On the verge of their varying Christmas cheer.
Though we cannot transplant your pride of growth,
Any more than the hawthorn, wayward and coy,
You can give us, still, the Old English troth,
And a thought of Old English joy.
Ha! what? Do the leaves grow dim?—