Forming a gloom, thro' which to spleen-struck minds
Religion, horror-stamp'd, a passage finds,
The  crawling o'er the hallow'd cell,
Where some old Hermit's wont his beads to tell
By day, by night; the  ever-green,
Beneath whose shade Love holds his rites unseen;
The  weeping o'er the fatal wave,
Where many a Lover finds a watry grave;
The  sacred held, when Lovers mourn
Their true Love snatch'd away; the  worn
By Poets in old time, but destin'd now
In grief to wither on a WHITEHEAD's brow;
The  which, large as what in India grows,
Itself a Grove, gave our first Parents cloaths;
The  which, like a blushing new-made Bride,
Clust'ring, empurples all the Mountain's side;
The  which, in the place of sculptur'd stone,
Marks out the resting-place of men unknown;
The hedge-row  the  of mountain race;
The  the SCOTCH  never out of place;
The  whose top mates the highest cloud,
Whilst his old Father LEBANON grows proud
Of such a child, and his vast Body laid
Out many a mile, enjoys the filial shade;
The  when living, monarch of the wood;
The ENGLISH  which, dead, commands the flood;
All, One and All, shall in this Chorus join,
And, dumb to others 'praise, be loud in mine.