In their winding sheets rob’d are the hills and the dales,
And the verdure no longer is seen;
Save where the slow streams wind their way thro’ the vales,
With their margins besprinkled with green.
On the stump of a thorn, with his bosom of red,
See the robin his thankful notes raise
For his crumbs—by his precepts, oh! may I be led
To give the All-bounteous due praise.
Hark! the blast sweeps the heath; see the mountain fir bend;
Thick tempests obscure the pale sky;