To H. S.

When I thy book, friend, open hastily,
Full many a cherish’d picture meets my view,
And many a golden image that I knew
In boyish dreams and days of infancy.
Proudly tow’rd heaven upsoaring, then I see
The pious dome, rotted by religion true,
I bear the sound of bell and organ too,
Love’s sweet lament at times addressing me.
Well see I, too, how o’er the dome they skip,
The nimble dwarfs, and with malicious joy
The beauteous flow’r- and carvèd- work destroy.
But though the oak of foliage we may strip,
And rob it of its fair and verdant grace,
When spring returns, fresh leaves it dons apace.