SONNET XCI.

On the fleet streams, the Sun, that late arose,

In amber radiance plays;— the tall young grass

No foot hath bruis'd;— clear Morning, as I pass,

Breathes the pure gale, that on the blossom blows;

And, as with gold yon green hill's summit glows,

The lake inlays the vale with molten glass.—

Now is the Year's soft youth;— yet me, alas!

Cheers not as it was wont;— impending woes

Weigh on my heart;— the joys, that once were mine,

Spring leads not back;— and those that yet remain

Fade while she blooms.— Each hour more lovely shine

Her crystal beams, and feed her floral Train;

But ah with pale, and waning fires, decline

Those eyes, whose light my filial hopes sustain.