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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 larni 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.

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