O ye immortal Woods and Groves,
Which the enamour'd Student loves;
Beneath whose venerable shade,
For Thought and friendly Converse made,
Fam'd  old Hero, lies,
Whose Shrine is shaded from the Skies,
And thro' the Gloom of silent Night
Projects from far its trembling Light;
You, whose Roots descend as low,
As high in Air your Branches grow;
Your leafy Arms to Heav'n extend,
Bend your Heads, in Homage bend:
Cedars and Pines that wave above,
And the Oak belov'd of