In the sunn’d glimpses of a troubled day,
Shiver in silvery brightness?
Or boatman’s oar, as vivid lightning, flash
In the faint gleam, that, like a spirit’s path,
Tracks the still waters of some sullen lake?
O gentle friend!
Chide not her mirth, who yesterday was sad,
And may be so to-morrow!” Joanna Baillie.
Ye met at the stately feasts of old,
Where the bright wine foam’d over sculptured gold;