Earth felt the wound; and Nature from her seat, Sighing through all her works, gave signs of woe That all was lost.

The liberty of conscience, which above all other things ought to be to all men dearest and most precious.

To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.

She what was honour knew, And with obsequious majesty approv'd My pleaded reason. To the nuptial bower I led her blushing like the morn; all heaven And happy constellations on that hour Shed their selectest influence; the earth Gave sign of gratulation, and each hill; Joyous the birds; fresh gales and gentle airs Whisper'd it to the woods, and from their wings Flung rose, flung odours from the spicy shrub.

Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north - wind's breath, And stars to set; but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

No date prefixed directs me in the starry rubric set.

Come to the sunset tree! The day is past and gone; The woodman's axe lies free, And the reaper's work is done.