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17

TO THE YEW.

WRITTEN IN 1799.

When fortune smil'd, and nature's charms were new,
I lov'd to see the oak majestic tower;
I lov'd to see the apple's painted flower,
Bedropt with pencill'd tints of rosy hue.
Now more I love thee, melancholy Yew,
Whose still green leaves in solemn silence wave
Above the peasant's red unhonour'd grave,
Which oft thou moistenest with the morning dew.
To thee the sad, to thee the weary fly;
They rest in peace beneath thy sacred gloom,
Thou sole companion of the lowly tomb!
No leaves but thine in pity o'er them sigh.
Lo! now, to fancy's gaze, thou seem'st to spread
Thy shadowy boughs to shroud me with the dead.