Hope comes to Youth, gliding thro' azure skies
With amaranth crown:—her full robe, snowy white,
Floats on the gale, and our exulting sight
Marks it afar.—From waning Life she flies,
Wrapt in a mist, covering her starry eyes
With her fair hand.—But now, in floods of light,
She meets thee, Sylvia, and with glances, bright
As lucid streams, when Spring's clear mornings rise.
From Hymen's kindling torch, a yellow ray
The shining texture of her spotless vest
Gilds;—and the Month that gives the early day
The scent odōrous[1], and the carol blest,
Pride of the rising Year, enamour'd May,
Paints its redundant folds with florets gay.
[1]: Odōrous. Milton, in the Par. Lost, gives the lengthened and harmonious accent to that word, rather than the short, and common one, ōdorous:
——“the bright consummate flower
Spirit odōrous breathes.”
SONNET LII.
Long has the pall of Midnight quench'd the scene,
And wrapt the hush'd horizon.—All around,
In scatter'd huts, Labor, in sleep profound,
Lies stretch'd, and rosy Innocence serene
Slumbers;—but creeps, with pale and starting mien,
Benighted Superstition.—Fancy-found,
The late self-slaughter'd Man, in earth yet green
And festering, burst from his incumbent mound,
Roams!—and the Slave of Terror thinks he hears
A mutter'd groan!—sees the sunk eye, that glares
As shoots the Meteor.—But no more forlorn
He strays;—the Spectre sinks into his tomb!
For now the jocund Herald of the Morn
Claps his bold wings, and sounds along the gloom[1].
[1]: “It faded at the crowing of the cock.” Hamlet.
SONNET LIII.
WRITTEN IN THE SPRING 1785 ON THE DEATH OF THE
POET LAUREAT.
The knell of Whitehead tolls!—his cares are past,
The hapless tribute of his purchas'd lays,
His servile, his Egyptian tasks of praise!—
If not sublime his strains, Fame justly plac'd
Their power above their work.—Now, with wide gaze
Of much indignant wonder, she surveys
To the life-labouring oar assiduous haste
A glowing Bard, by every Muse embrac'd.—
O, Warton! chosen Priest of Phœbus' choir!
Shall thy rapt song be venal? hymn the Throne,
Whether its edicts just applause inspire,
Or Patriot Virtue view them with a frown?
What needs for this the golden-stringed Lyre,
The snowy Tunic, and the Sun-bright Zone[1]!
[1]: Ensigns of Apollo's Priesthood.