 | Poems of Charles Churchill |  |
Forming a gloom, through which, to spleen-struck minds,
Religion, horror stamp'd, a passage finds,
The ivy crawling o'er the hallow'd cell
Where some old hermit's wont his beads to tell
By day, by night; the myrtle ever green,
Beneath whose shade Love holds his rites unseen;
The willow, weeping o'er the fatal wave
Where many a lover finds a watery grave;
The cypress, sacred held when lovers mourn
Their true love snatch'd away; the laurel worn
By poets in old time, but destined now,
In grief to wither on a Whitehead's brow;
The fig, which, large as what in India grows,
Itself a grove, gave our first parents clothes;
The vine, which, like a blushing, new-made bride,
Clustering, empurples all the mountain's side;
The yew, which in the place of sculptured stone,
Marks out the resting-place of men unknown;
The hedge-row elm, the pine, of mountain race;
The fir, the Scotch fir, never out of place;
The cedar, whose top mates the highest cloud,
Whilst his old father Lebanon grows proud
Of such a child, and his vast body laid
Out many a mile, enjoys the filial shade;
The oak, when living, monarch of the wood;
The English oak, which, dead, commands the flood;
All, one and all, shall in this chorus join,
And dumb to others' praise, be loud in mine.
Religion, horror stamp'd, a passage finds,
The ivy crawling o'er the hallow'd cell
Where some old hermit's wont his beads to tell
By day, by night; the myrtle ever green,
Beneath whose shade Love holds his rites unseen;
The willow, weeping o'er the fatal wave
Where many a lover finds a watery grave;
The cypress, sacred held when lovers mourn
Their true love snatch'd away; the laurel worn
By poets in old time, but destined now,
In grief to wither on a Whitehead's brow;
The fig, which, large as what in India grows,
Itself a grove, gave our first parents clothes;
The vine, which, like a blushing, new-made bride,
Clustering, empurples all the mountain's side;
The yew, which in the place of sculptured stone,
Marks out the resting-place of men unknown;
The hedge-row elm, the pine, of mountain race;
The fir, the Scotch fir, never out of place;
The cedar, whose top mates the highest cloud,
Whilst his old father Lebanon grows proud
Of such a child, and his vast body laid
Out many a mile, enjoys the filial shade;
The oak, when living, monarch of the wood;
The English oak, which, dead, commands the flood;
All, one and all, shall in this chorus join,
And dumb to others' praise, be loud in mine.
| Poems of Charles Churchill | |