The Mulberry Tree. a New Song

The sweet briar' grows in the merry green wood, Where the musk-rose diffuses its perfume so free; But the blight often siezes both blossom and bud, While the mildew flies over the Mulberry Tree.

In the nursery rear'd like the young tender vine, Mankind of all orders, and ev'ry degree, First crawl on the ground, then spring up like the pine, And some branch and bear fruit, like the Mulberry Tree.

To the fair tree of knowledge some twine like a twig, While some sappy sprouts with their fruits disagree; For which we from birch now and then pluck a twig, Which is not quite so sweet as the Mulberry Tree.

The vast tree of life we all cagerly climb, And impatiently pant at its hightop to be, Tho' nine out of ten is lopp'd off in their prime, And they drop like dead leaves from the Mulberry Tree.

Some live by the leaf, and some live by the bow, As the song, or the dance, their vocation may be, And some live and thrive, tho' we know no more how, Than the dew that flies over the Mulberry Tree.

But like weeping willows we hang down the head, When poor wither'd elders we're destin'd to be, And we're minded no more than mere logs when we're dead, Or the dew that flies over the Mulberry Tree.

Yet like lignum-vitae we hearts of oak wear, Or the cedar that keeps from the canker worm free, While the vine-juice we drain to dissolve ev'ry care, Like the dew that flies over the Mulberry Tree.