Blushing their last to the last sunny hours,
When the mild Eve by sudden Night is prest,
Like tearful Proserpine, snatch’d from her flow’rs,
To a most gloomy breast.
Where is the pride of Summer—the green prime—
The merry, merry leaves all twinkling?—there
On the moss’d elm; there on the naked lime
Trembling—and one upon the old oak-tree!
Where is the Dryad’s immortality?
Gone into mournful cypress and dark yew,