Part 2 — THE WILLOW BY THE SPRING.

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BY J. HUNT, JR.

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Near to my old grandfather’s cot,

A small stream murmurs by;

And from its bank a spring pours out,

Whose waters never dry;

Beside that spring a willow stands—

A tall and stately tree—

Oh, would you learn what charms it hath?

I’ll tell its charms to me;

The willow by the spring,

The willow by the spring;

Oh, may it live and strength receive,

While Time the moments wing.

My mother, on her bridal morn,

Two twigs inserted there;

And twining them together close,

United thus the pair;

She left them to the charge of Fate,

To flourish or to fade;

But taking root, they freely grew,

And gave the spring a shade;

The willow by the spring,

The willow by the spring;

Oh, may it live and strength receive,

While Time the moments wing.

How oft have I, when but a child,

And e’en in later years,

Sat ’neath that willow’s drooping boughs,

And bathed its roots in tears;

Not for a sadness which I felt,

From pains that pressed my heart;

But Mem’ry, with her troop of thoughts,

Bade Feeling’s fountain start;

The willow by the spring,

The willow by the spring;

Oh, may it live and strength receive,

While Time the moments wing.

When on the cultured plains of life,

A wedded pair I see,

Who, true to each, together cling,

I think upon that tree;

There, green in age, it broadly spreads

Its branches to the sun—

Distinct, two trunks appear in view,

And yet, they “twain are one.”

That willow of my home,

That willow of my home;

Oh, may it live and strength receive,

One hundred years to come.