Addressed to a BEECH TREE, on observing that some of its Leaves were tinged by the Smoke of a Fire that had been kindled under it.

Addressed to a BEECH TREE, on observing that some of its Leaves were tinged by the Smoke of a Fire that had been kindled under it.

WHAT taints thy shade — or doth the year decay? Yet soon again — thy tender leaf revives. I too, in silence, to the grave go down; But hope inspires — that still a sweeter spring Awaits new joys;

Sweeter than even these fields; Where oft the Muse in plaintive notes Invites the coming year, Or mourns the time delayed.