The Tree
By: Anne Finch, Countess of Winchilsea
Fair tree! for thy
delightful shade
'Tis just that some
return be made;
Sure some return is
due from me
To thy cool
shadows, and to thee.
When thou to birds
dost shelter give,
Thou music dost
from them receive;
If travellers
beneath thee stay
Till storms have
worn themselves away,
That time in
praising thee they spend
And thy protecting
pow'r commend.
The shepherd here,
from scorching freed,
Tunes to thy
dancing leaves his reed;
Whilst his lov'd
nymph, in thanks, bestows
Her flow'ry
chaplets on thy boughs.
Shall I then only
silent be,
And no return be
made by me?
No; let this wish
upon thee wait,
And still to
flourish be thy fate.
To future ages
may'st thou stand
Untouch'd by the
rash workman's hand,
Till that large
stock of sap is spent,
Which gives thy
summer's ornament;
Till the fierce
winds, that vainly strive
To shock thy
greatness whilst alive,
Shall on thy
lifeless hour attend,
Prevent the axe,
and grace thy end;
Their scatter'd
strength together call
And to the clouds
proclaim thy fall;
Who then their
ev'ning dews may spare
When thou no longer
art their care,
But shalt, like
ancient heroes, burn,
And some bright hearth be made thy urn.