We love, but joy not in the ray,--
It is not summer's fervid gladness,
But a melancholy glory
Hov'ring brightly round decay,
Like swan that sings her own sad story,
Ere she floats in death away.
The day declines.--What splendid dyes,
In flicker'd waves of crimson driven,
Float o'er the saffron sea, that lies
Glowing within the western heaven!