Long, as revolving seasons flew,

From youth to age it flourish'd,

By vernal winds and star-light dew,
By showers and sun-beams nourish'd ;

And while in dust the Poet slept,

The Willow o'er his ashes wept.

Old Time beheld its silvery head

With graceful grandeur towering,

Its pensile boughs profusely spread,

The breezy lawn embowering,

Till, arch'd around, there seem'd to shoot A grove of scions from one root.

Thither, at Summer noon, he view'd
The lovely Nine retreating,

Beneath its twilight solitude

With songs their Poet greeting,

Whose spirit in the Willow spoke,

Like Jove's from dark Dodona's oak.

By harvest moonlight there he spied

The fairy bands advancing;

Bright Ariel's troop, on Thames's side,

Around the willow dancing;

Gay sylphs among the foliage play'd,

And glow-worms glitter'd in the shade.

One morn, while Time thus mark'd the tree, In beauty green and glorious,

'The hand,' he cried, that planted thee

'O'er mine was oft victorious;

'Be vengeance now my calm employ,'One work of POPE'S I will destroy.'

He spake, and struck a silent blow

With that dread arm whose motion

Lays cedars, thrones, and temples low,

And wields o'er land and ocean

The unremitting axe of doom,

That fells the forest of the tomb.

Deep to the Willow's root it went,

And cleft the core asunder,

Like sudden secret lightning, sent

Without recording thunder:

-From that sad moment, slow away

Began the Willow to decay.

In vain did Spring those bowers restore, Where Loves and Graces revell'd,

Autumn's wild gales the branches tore, The thin grey leaves dishevell❜d,

And every wasting Winter found

The Willow nearer to the ground.

Hoary, and weak, and bent with age,
At length the axe assail'd it:

It bow'd before the woodman's rage;

O 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.

An humbler lot, O Tree! was thine;

-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.

Yet, fallen Willow! if to me

Such

power of song were given,

My lips should breathe a soul through thee,

And call down fire from heaven,

To kindle in this hallow'd Urn

A flame that would for ever burn.