TO THE MISLETOE. ETC. 113 



TO THE MISLETOE AT THE 

 TOMB OF WASHINGTON. 



DARK plant of Superstition s shade, 



Why lift st thou here the cheerless eye, 

 Where reeks no Druid s purple blade, 

 To stain the Christian s hallow d shade, 

 Or dim fair Freedom s sky ? 



Sacred to orgies blind and base, 

 Where human blood was sternly spilt, 



How dar st thou seek this holy place ? 



Rude parasite ! whose foul embrace 

 Hast wreath d the murderer s hilt. 



Where ancient Mona s foliage wept, 



Or drear Stonehenge was wrapp d in gloom, 



Thy earthless root had fitter crept, 



Thy mystic garland better slept, 

 Than near a Christian tomb. 



