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world doth take us captive with its wiles Of vanity or pleasure. So our thoughts Are scarce in unison with Nature's grief, When her sweet blossoms fade. Yon stricken trees, From whence glad Autumn gathereth plenteous store Of ruddy apples for the wintry eve, Resign their radiant robes, and rich perfume, That made the orchard like a queen's levee. And clad in russet garments, fleck'd with green, Lamenting, teach the philosophic lore Of brief prosperity. That lofty pine, Which, like some feudal baron from his tower, Did awe the neighboring peasantry of shrubs, Deplores that they should see his boasted wealth Stripp'd by each robber breeze.