When comes, as come it must, thy fall,
Lear of the Forest, robb’d of all!
Enough; and from my trembling hand
Drops the sad lyre.—Abused Land,
Take my last strains! in happier days
I tun’d my rude horn to thy praise;
And (all I wish’d) the friends I lov’d
Those unassuming notes approv’d;
And some, with strength beyond its own,[[91]]
In sweeter echoes cheer’d the tone;