The Works of Abraham Cowley/Volume 2/The Tree

by Abraham Cowley

THE TREE.

I chose the flourishing'st tree in all the park,
With freshest boughs and fairest head;
I cut my love into his gentle bark,
And in three days, behold! ’tis dead:
My very written flames so violent be,
They've burnt and wither'd-up the tree.

How should I live myself, whose heart is found
Deeply graven every-where
With the large history of many a wound,
Larger than thy trunk can bear?
With art as strange as Homer in the nut,
Love in my heart as volumes put.

What a few words from thy rich stock did take
The leaves and beauties all,
As a strong poison with one drop does make
The nails and hairs to fall:
Love (I see now) a kind of witchcraft is,
Or characters could ne'er do this.

Pardon, ye birds and nymphs, who lov'd this shade;
And pardon me, thou gentle tree;
I thought her name would thee have happy made,
And blessed omens hop'd from thee:
"Notes of my love, thrive here," said I, "and grow;
"And with ye let my love do so."

Alas, poor youth! thy love will never thrive!
This blasted tree predestines it;
Go, tie the dismal knot (why shouldst thou live?)
And, by the lines thou there hast writ,
Deform'dly hanging, the sad picture be
To that unlucky history.

 

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