THE BIRCH
ON THE WORCESTERSHIRE BEACON, GREAT MALVERN.
It stood alone on the green hill side,
That fairy birchen tree,
Its yellow leaves in the autumn breeze
Were flutt'ring heavily.
The early frosts brought those pale leaves down,
Ere the storms of winter came;
And stripp'd and bare stood my birchen tree,
But a wreck to tell its name.
I pass'd the place when the streams were still,
When the earth was chang'd to stone,
On the leafless boughs a hoary show'r,
As a spell of heav'n was thrown.
The glistening sprays by the wind were stirr'd,
Like a banner gently furl'd;
It seem'd, in its pure and peerless grace,
A gift from another world.
And even thus in our inner life,
When the early frosts are come,
When the greenness has pass'd from life away,
And the music of earth is dumb;
'Tis then that the light and hope of heav'n,
O'er the lonely heart are flung,
And our spirit knows a holier joy
Than that to which erst it clung.