And that bright eye of evening gild the morn.
Say, when of old the snow-hair’d druids pray’d
With mad-ey’d rapture in your hallow’d shade,
While to their altars bards and heroes throng,
And crouding nations join the ecstatick song;
Did e’er such dulcet notes arrest your gales,
As Mundy pours along the list’ning vales?
Yes, stately oak, thy leaf-wrapp’d head sublime
Erelong must perish in the wrecks of time;
Shou’d o’er thy brow the thunders harmless break,