Methinks, with wild resentment’s flash,
I hear thy rising currents dash—
But still my charge I’ll deftly prove;
Where are the healthful flowers that wove
Fresh garlands here, in copse and grove?
The golden-rod, of sunny hue,
Heart’s-ease and violets deeply blue,
The lustrous laurel, richly drest,
That through the sober alders prest;
These blossomed when I saw thee last,