Their limbs lie scatter’d o’er the ground,
Until the barker trims them round.
Ah! never more will they o’ershade
The lovers’ footsteps in the glade;
No: nor foxes, hares, or birds,
Truant-playing flocks and herds,
Will evermore again be plighting—
Beneath their branches—love’s delighting.
Some hoary oaks, far down the glen,
Have many a time half barr’d the sun;