Yet, all beneath the unrivalld rose, The lowly daisy sweetly blows; Tho large the forests monarch throws His army shade, Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows, Adown the glade. BurnsVision. Duan II. St. 21.
Gives not the hawthorn-bush a sweeter shade To shepherds looking on their silly sheep Than doth a rich embroiderd canopy To kings that fear their subjects treachery? Henry VI. Pt. III. Act II. Sc. 5. L. 42.
The Hawthorn whitens; and the juicy Groves Put forth their buds, unfolding by degrees, Till the whole leafy Forest stands displayed, In full luxuriance, to the sighing gales. ThomsonSeasons. Spring. L. 90.