(Written at the request of a young Lady.)
Behold yon brilliant orb, whose matchless light
O’er heaven’s capacious arch its rays diffuse;
Atchiev’d his constant round, he shews less bright,
And half his splendor’s wrapt in western dews.
The lightly passing clouds, with gold array’d,
Steal from their august Monarch as he dies;
And ting’d with brightest hues they fly pourtray’d;
And give a glow to circumambient skies.
The Night too soon her darksome curtain drops,