56
POEMS.
O fondly did the ivy cling,
Around that stately tree,
And lovely in the budding spring
Its leaves were wont to be.
No storm its clasping stem could move
As round each branch it grew,
And oft the oak had said its love
Was with the ivy true.
Around that stately tree,
And lovely in the budding spring
Its leaves were wont to be.
No storm its clasping stem could move
As round each branch it grew,
And oft the oak had said its love
Was with the ivy true.
But one sad day a nightingale,
From its woodbine scented glade,
And the roses of the sunny vale,
To the forest's shelter strayed;
And chose the kingly oak so high
Its resting-place to make,
And the tree forgot the ivy nigh,
For the gifted stranger's sake.
From its woodbine scented glade,
And the roses of the sunny vale,
To the forest's shelter strayed;
And chose the kingly oak so high
Its resting-place to make,
And the tree forgot the ivy nigh,
For the gifted stranger's sake.
O the ivy wept both day and night,
Such altered love to know,
And scarcely seemed the sunbeams bright,
To its heart so choked with woe;
But the faithless oak still prized the bird,
With its silv'ry notes so rare;
And its melody the forest heard,
Through the balmy summer air.
Such altered love to know,
And scarcely seemed the sunbeams bright,
To its heart so choked with woe;
But the faithless oak still prized the bird,
With its silv'ry notes so rare;
And its melody the forest heard,
Through the balmy summer air.
