Sweet trees, how oft, in early years,
I've sat beneath your quiet shade,
Ere life was clouded o'er with tears,
Or one sweet flo'r had lean'd to fade!
There infant sports and childhood's glee
Were heard through many a summer day:
Then ev'ry heart from grief was free,
And life was robed in hues of May.
Tere first the Sabbath morning gave
Its lesson from the sacred word;
And as we view'd your branches wave,
We learn'd the love of Christ the Lord.
There, when the early morning rose,
Our father soought his own lov'd seat;
And oft, at dewy ev'ning's close,
He trod that undisturb'd retreat.
Then converse lit the passing hour
With joy no other time hath worn;—
What's sweeter than the spring-time flow'r,
Or lovlier than the light of morn!
When rustling in the trembling breeze,
A whisp'ring melody you sung,
I learned from you, sweet willow-trees,
The music that through nature rung.
Still, still you sing, and still you wave
Your boughs, as in those days of yore:
But some are gone;—oh, stranger, save
One for my grave,—I ask no more.
Christian Poetry by Augusta Baldwyn