Our verdant walks and pleasure-grounds o’erflow.
Incumber’d by their foliage now, the trees,
With leaves, untimely dropp’d, bestrew the ground:
Because Matilda’s presence does not please,
All bleak and dismal seem the fields around.
Her placid looks bespoke a mind serene,
Each feature wore an unaffected smile;
Her’s was the pow’r to beautify the scene,
And sweetly gay the languid hours beguile.
Her count’nance milder than an April morn,