‘Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more;
I mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you,
For morn is approaching, your charms to restore,
Perfum’d with fresh fragrance and glitt’ring with dew.
Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn,
Kind nature the embryo blossom will save,
But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn!
Oh! when shall day dawn on the night of the grave!