The Poplar-Field

The Poplars are fell'd, 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 last took a view Of my favourite field and the bank where they grew, And now in the grass behold are they laid, And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade. The black-bird has fled to another retreat Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat, And the scene where his melody charm'd me before, Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more. My fugitive years are all hasting away, And I must e'er long lie as lowly as they, With a turf on my breast and a stone at my head E'er another such grove shall arise in its stead. 'Tis a sight to engage me if any thing 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.