Through primrose-tufts, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle trail'd its wreathes; And 'tis my faith that every flower The birds around me hopp'd and play'd: Their thoughts I cannot measure, But the least motion which they made, It seem'd a thrill of pleasure. The budding twigs spread out their fan, To catch the breezy air; And I must think, do all I can, That there was pleasure there. If I these thoughts may not prevent, What man has made of man ?. THE THORN. I. There is a thorn; it looks so old, Not higher than a two-years' child, It stands erect, and like a stone With lichens it is overgrown, II. Like rock or stone, it is o'ergrown And hung with heavy tufts of moss, Up from the earth these mosses creep, And all had joined in one endeavour To bury this poor thorn for ever. III. High on a mountain's highest ridge, Where oft the stormy winter gale Cuts like a scythe, while through the clouds It sweeps from vale to vale; Not five yards from the mountain-path, This thorn you on your left espy; And to the left, three yards beyond, Of water, never dry; I've measured it from side to side: 'Tis three feet long, and two feet wide. IV. And close beside this aged thorn, All lovely colours there you see, The work had woven been, And cups, the darlings of the eye, So deep is their vermilion dye. V. Ah me! what lovely tints are there! In spikes, in branches, and in stars,, This heap of earth o'ergrown with moss, So fresh in all its beauteous dyes, Is like an infant's grave in size As like as like can be: But never, never any where, An infant's grave was half so fair. VI. Now would you see this aged thorn, You must take care and chuse your time |