Addressed to a BEECH TREE, on observing that some of its Leaves were tinged by the Smoke of a Fire that had been kindled under it.

WHAT taints thy shade — or doth the year decay? 
Yet soon again — thy tender leaf revives. 
I too, in silence, to the grave go down;
 But hope inspires — that still a sweeter spring
 Awaits new joys;

Sweeter than even these fields;
 Where oft the Muse in plaintive notes
 Invites the coming year,
 Or mourns the time delayed.