Page 8
VI.
THE COMPLAINT OF A SOLITARY TREE PLACED IN
A GLOOMY COURT IN LONDON. WINTER.
FROM Nature and her sweet communion torn, O say what hand unpitying placed me here? Without a breeze my fading form to cheer, A pris'ner, drooping, pensive, and forlorn. Scarce can a sun‐beam glance athwart the gloom, Whilst every stem drives bleakly o'er my head. Would that the earth might hide me in her bed, Since here I fade, and never more can bloom! O Lady! from yon window's shaded height Look with compassion on my fate beneath; Bind not thy brow with art's ficititious wreath, But give to me that happier, envied right; Or ah! transplant me to thy garden fair, And Gratitude will find an Eden there.