On the fleet streams, the Sun, that late arose,
In amber radiance plays;—the tall young grass
No foot hath bruis'd;—clear Morning, as I pass,
Breathes the pure gale, that on the blossom blows;
And, as with gold yon green hill's summit glows,
The lake inlays the vale with molten glass.—
Now is the Year's soft youth;—yet me, alas!
Cheers not as it was wont;—impending woes
Weigh on my heart;—the joys, that once were mine,
Spring leads not back;—and those that yet remain
Fade while she blooms.—Each hour more lovely shine
Her crystal beams, and feed her floral Train;
But ah with pale, and waning fires, decline
Those eyes, whose light my filial hopes sustain.
SONNET XCII.
Behold that Tree, in Autumn's dim decay,
Stript by the frequent, chill, and eddying Wind;
Where yet some yellow, lonely leaves we find
Lingering and trembling on the naked spray,
Twenty, perchance, for millions whirl'd away!
Emblem, alas! too just, of Humankind!
Vain Man expects longevity, design'd
For few indeed; and their protracted day
What is it worth that Wisdom does not scorn?
The blasts of Sickness, Care, and Grief appal,
That laid the Friends in dust, whose natal morn
Rose near their own;—and solemn is the call;—
Yet, like those weak, deserted leaves forlorn,
Shivering they cling to life, and fear to fall!
SONNET XCIII.
Yon soft Star, peering o'er the sable cloud,
Sheds its [1]green lustre thro' the darksome air.—
Haply in that mild Planet's crystal sphere
Live the freed Spirits, o'er whose timeless shroud
Swell'd my lone sighs, my tearful sorrows flow'd.
They, of these long regrets perhaps aware,
View them with pitying smiles.—O! then, if e'er
Your guardian cares may be on me bestow'd,
For the pure friendship of our youthful days,
Ere yet ye soar'd from earth, illume my heart,
That roves bewilder'd in Dejection's night,
And lead it back to peace!—as now ye dart,
From your pellucid mansion, the kind rays,
That thro' misleading darkness stream so bright.
[1]: The lustre of the brightest of the Stars always appeared to me of a green hue; and they are so described by Ossian.
SONNET XCIV.
All is not right with him, who ill sustains
Retirement's silent hours.—Himself he flies,
Perchance from that insipid equipoise,
Which always with the hapless mind remains
That feels no native bias; never gains
One energy of will, that does not rise
From some external cause, to which he hies
From his own blank inanity.—When reigns,
With a strong, cultur'd mind, this wretched hate
To commune with himself, from thought that tells
Of some lost joy, or dreaded stroke of Fate
He struggles to escape;—or sense that dwells
On secret guilt towards God, or Man, with weight
Thrice dire, the self-exiling flight impels.
SONNET XCV.
On the damp margin of the sea-beat shore
Lonely at eve to wander;—or reclin'd
Beneath a rock, what time the rising wind
Mourns o'er the waters, and, with solemn roar,
Vast billows into caverns surging pour,
And back recede alternate; while combin'd
Loud shriek the sea-fowls, harbingers assign'd,
Clamorous and fearful, of the stormy hour;
To listen with deep thought those awful sounds;
Gaze on the boiling, the tumultuous waste,
Or promontory rude, or craggy mounds
Staying the furious main, delight has cast
O'er my rapt spirit, and my thrilling heart,
Dear as the softer joys green vales impart.