SONNET II.

The Future, and its gifts, alone we prize,

Few joys the Present brings, and those alloy'd;

Th’ expected fulness leaves an aching void;

But HOPE stands by, and lifts her sunny eyes

That gild the days to come.— She still relies

The Phantom HAPPINESS not thus shall glide

Always from life.— Alas!— yet ill betide

Austere Experience, when she coldly tries

In distant roses to discern the thorn!

Ah! is it wise to anticipate our pain?

Arriv'd, it then is soon enough to mourn.

Nor call the dear Consoler false and vain,

When yet again, shining through april-tears,

Those fair enlight'ning eyes beam on advancing Years.