SONNET XCVI.
The breathing freshness of the shining Morn,
Whose beams glance yellow on the distant fields,
A sweet, unutterable pleasure yields
To my dejected sense, that turns with scorn
From the light joys of Dissipation born.
Sacred Remembrance all my bosom shields
Against each glittering lance she gaily wields,
Warring with fond Regrets, that silent mourn
The Heart's dear comforts lost.—But, Nature, thou,
Thou art resistless still;—and yet I ween
Thy present balmy gales, and vernal blow,
To Memory owe the magic of their scene;
For with such fragrant breath, such orient rays,
Shone the soft mornings of my youthful days.
SONNET XCVII.
TO A COFFIN-LID.
Thou silent Door of our eternal sleep,
Sickness, and pain, debility, and woes,
All the dire train of ills Existence knows,
Thou shuttest out FOR EVER!—Why then weep
This fix'd tranquillity,—so long!—so deep!
In a dear Father's clay-cold Form?—where rose
No energy, enlivening Health bestows,
Thro' many a tedious year, that us'd to creep
In languid deprivation; while the flame
Of intellect, resplendent once confess'd,
Dark, and more dark, each passing day became.
Now that angelic lights the Soul invest,
Calm let me yield to thee a joyless Frame,
Thou silent Door of everlasting Rest.
SONNET XCVIII.
Since my griev'd mind some energy regains,
Industrious habits can, at times, repress
The weight of filial woe, the deep distress
Of life-long separation; yet its pains,
Oft do they throb along these fever'd veins.—
My rest has lost its balm, the fond caress
Wont the dear aged forehead to impress
At midnight, as he slept;—nor now obtains
My uprising the blest news, that cou'd impart
Joy to the morning, when its dawn had brought
Some health to that weak Frame, o'er which my heart
With fearful fondness yearn'd, and anxious thought.—
Time, and the Hope that robs the mortal Dart
Of its fell sting, shall cheer me—as they ought.
SONNET XCIX.
ON THE VIOLENT THUNDER STORMS.