To mourn the jolly Day's discomfiture,
And, mindful of mine own estate, among
The buds and grieving trees my plaint outpour,
That sweets must fade though Night will aye endure.
But crafty Nature, fancy to beguile
From her disaster, which, alas! is mine,
Bids to the front in radiant defile
A trooping host whose pomps incarnadine
The faded trophies of the dying day,
And, lest I fail before so brave array,