Be it thy care that wintry tempests fail
To rend its honours from the sylvan bower.
Then shall it spread, and rear th’ aspiring form.
Pride of the wood, secure from every storm,
Graced with her name, a consecrated tree!
So may thy Lord, thy monarch of the wind,
Ne’er with rude chains thy tender pinions bind,
But grant thee still to rove, a wanderer wild and free!
GESNER.
MORNING SONG.