Whate’er of wood or lawn could please,
Whate’er of hills that rang’d with ease,
In grand assemblage broad display’d,
This far commanding mount survey’d.
How chang’d! those oaks, that tower’d so high,
Dismember’d, stript, extended, lie;
On the stain’d turf their wrecks are pil’d,[[63]]
Where thousand Summers bask’d and smil’d;
In smouldering heaps their limbs consume;[[64]]
The dark smoke marks their casual tomb;