Oh tender slip of the most beauteous tree

"Oh tender slip of the most beauteous tree That fruitful earth e'er nourished, full of flowers, And to that other glory of the bowers, Thy parent sylvan, equal in degree! The same tempestuous wind, by the decree Of Eolus that plucked up by the roots, Far from its native stream, thy trunk, its shoots Stript off to flourish in a greener lea. One was your doom; the same fond Angel too Transplanted you to heaven, where both your blooms Produce immortal fruits; your fatal case I weep not, as the wont is, but to you, On my raised altar burn all sweet perfumes, With hymns of gladness and a tearless face."