Page:Three Plays Sunderland Hills.pdf/143

Rh THE FARANDÔLE.

We'll to the woods no more, lopp'd is the laurel now, The glory gay despoil'd, and leafless every bough! The fair crowns cut away, that grew so green before, Passionate pilgrims pass, we'll to the woods no more!

We'll to the woods no more, the green glades nymph bereft In order'd columns fall, like swathe by scythesman left. The woodland shrine is fell'd, we lov'd so well of yore, Poor pilgrims dis-possess'd, we'll to the woods no more.