The Poplar Field.

The poplars are felld, 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 had elapsed since I last 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 a shade.     The blackbird has fled to another retreat,     Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat,     And the scene where his melody charmd 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.[1]