The flowers how gay, the trees how green!
But now it no such charms can boast,
Its music gone, its verdure lost;
The changing leaves fall fast away,
And all its pride is in decay;
Where blossoms deckt the pointed thorn
Now hangs the wintry drop forlorn;
No longer from the fragrant bush
Odours exhale, nor roses blush.
Along the late enamelled mead