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102 EARLY P?OEMS ON When I am laid in dust, no more The squirrel here his haunts shall hold, My boughs his home, my fruits his store For winter's cold: Nor frame on high his mossy nest, Nor lure his little ones t o spring From branch to branch, with milk-white breast, �In graceful ring. No more, within mY leafy cell, The dove shall murmur to his mate,. Nor here the black-bird's wild note swell, So sweet of late. The cattle never shall retreat Beneath my thick impervious bower, To shun the noon-day sultry heat, Or pelting shower. On my wreath'd roots, no more reclin'd Shall musing Poet then be found, To watch my foliage in the wind, Chequering the ground. ......... ?Google
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