TO THE MISLETOE, ETC.
113
TO THE MISLETOE AT THE TOMB OF WASHINGTON.
Dark plant of Superstition's shade,
Why lift'st thou here the cheerless eye,
Where reeks no Druid's purple blade,
To stain the Christian's hallow'd shade,
Or dim fair Freedom's sky?
Sacred to orgies blind and base,
Where human blood was sternly spilt,
How dar'st thou seek this holy place?
Rude parasite! whose foul embrace
Hast wreath'd the murderer's hilt.
Where ancient Mona's foliage wept,
Or drear Stonehenge was wrapp'd in gloom,
Thy earthless root had fitter crept,
Thy mystic garland better slept,
Than near a Christian tomb.
