In grief, to wither on a Whitehead's brow; 290 The fig, which, large as what in India grows, Itself a grove, gave our first parents clothes; The vine, which, like a blushing new-made bride, Clustering, empurples all the mountain's side; The yew, which, in the place of sculptured stone, Marks out the resting-place of men unknown; The hedge-row elm; the pine, of mountain race; The fir, the Scotch fir, never out of place; The cedar, whose top mates the highest cloud, Whilst his old father Lebanon grows proud 300 Of such a child, and his vast body laid Out many a mile, enjoys the filial shade; The oak, when living, monarch of the wood; The English oak, which, dead, commands the flood; All, one and all, shall in this chorus join, And, dumb to others' praise, be loud in mine. Rejoice, ye happy Gothamites! rejoice; Lift up your voice on high, a mighty voice, The voice of gladness; and on every tongue, In strains of gratitude, be praises hung, 310 The praises of so great and good a king: Shall Churchill reign, and shall not Gotham sing? The showers, which make the young hills, like young lambs, Bound and rebound; the old hills, like old rams, Unwieldy, jump for joy; the streams which glide, Whilst Plenty marches smiling by their side, And from their bosom rising Commerce springs; The winds, which rise with healing on their wings, Before whose cleansing breath Contagion flies; The sun, who, travelling in eastern skies, 320 Fresh, full of strength, just risen from his bed, Though in Jove's pastures they were born and bred, With voice and whip can scarce make his steeds stir, Step by step, up the perpendicular; Who, at the hour of eve, panting for rest, Rolls on amain, and gallops down the west As fast as Jehu, oil'd for Ahab's sin, Drove for a crown, or postboys for an inn; The moon, who holds o'er night her silver reign, Regent of tides, and mistress of the brain, 330 Who to her sons, those sons who own her power, And do her homage at the midnight hour, Gives madness as a blessing, but dispenses Wisdom to fools, and damns them with their senses; The stars, who, by I know not what strange right, Preside o'er mortals in their own despite, Who, without reason, govern those who most (How truly, judge from thence!) of reason boast, And, by some mighty magic yet unknown, Our actions guide, yet cannot guide their own; 340 All, one and all, shall in this chorus join, And, dumb to others' praise, be loud in mine. Rejoice, ye happy Gothamites! rejoice; Lift up your voice on high, a mighty voice, The voice of gladness; and on every tongue, In strains of gratitude, be praises hung, The praises of so great and good a king: Shall Churchill reign, and shall not Gotham sing? The moment, minute, hour, day, week, month, year, Morning and eve, as they in turn appear; 350