Not all the little waking elves, that rise
From out their rosy bow’rs of velvet buds,
Where they had slept the day,
To dance thy rays beneath,
Feel such delight as does this breast, when thou
With radiant lustre shew’st the happy hour,
That leads from scenes of care
To still domestic bliss.
SONNET ON EARLY IMPRESSIONS.
Warm’d with the gen’rous flame that spreads a glow