APOSTROPHE.
59
The mantling Clematis, whose feathery bowers
Waved in festoons with Nightshade's purple flowers,
The silver weed, whose corded fillets wove
Round thy pale rind, even as deceitful love
Of mercenary beauty would engage
The dotard fondness of decrepit age;
All these, that during Summer's halcyon days
With their green canopies conceal'd thy sprays,
Are gone for ever; or disfigured, trail
Their sallow relics in the Autumnal gale;
Or o'er thy roots, in faded fragments tost,
But tell of happier hours, and sweetness lost!
—Thus in Fate's trying hour, when furious storms
Strip social life of Pleasure's fragile forms,
