This page needs to be proofread.
91
Pope ! hadst thou, whose lyre so long The wondering world enchanted,
Amidst thy paradise of song This Weeping Willow planted ;
Among thy loftiest laurels seen.
In deathless verse for ever green,— -.
Thy chosen Tree had stood sublime,
The storms of ages braving, Triumphant o'er the wrecks of Time,
Its verdant banner waving While regal pyramids decay 'd, And empires perish'd in its shade*
Aa humbler lot, O Tree ! was thine j — Gone down in all thy glory,
The sweet, the mournful task be mine, To sing thy simple story ;
Though verse like mine in vain would raise
The fame of thy departed days.
�� �
