The poplars are felled; farewell to the shade

And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade:

The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves,

Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives.

Twelve years have elapsed since I first took a view

Of my favourite field and the bank where they grew;

And now in the grass behold they are laid

And the tree is my seat that once lent me shade!

The blackbird has fled to another retreat

Where the Hazels afford him a screen from the heat,

And the scene where his melody charmed me before

Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more.

My fugitive years are all hasting away,

And I must ere long lie as lowly as they

With a turf on my breast and a stone at my head,

Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead.

Tis a sight to engage me if anything can,

To muse on the perishing pleasures of man;

Though his life be a dream his enjoyments, I see,

Have a being less durable even than he.