And many a year, your growth renew’d,
In venerable solitude,
With arch and column, here you stood,
As once the Temple of the Wood.
The seasons wrought not on your form;
You bent not to the battering storm;
Arrested on each shrouded brow,
No wanton sunbeams pry’d below.—
Respected veterans! favourite glade!
Oft, as I pac’d your pensive shade,