Addressed to Miss L — — T, on reading her Elegy on my Weeping
Willow, destroyed in a late storm .

Sweetly sing melodious fair,
Strike the deep resounding lyre,
Warbling soft the pensive air —
Accordant to the mournful wire.

Reclining in the blasted shade,
All by the brook that winds along,
The Willow on its margin laid,
I hear thy melancholy song,
Its fall you sing — responsive tones of woe
Breathe thro' the sighing grove, the waves sad-murm'ring flow.

Could ought my pensive grief asswage
For yonder dear devoted Tree —
(Mute victim of the tempest's rage)
'Twere this — its fate is sung by thee.