 | [Poems by Smith in] The Echo |  |
SONNET, VII.
TO THE SUN.
Hail Son of Morning! thou, whose orient Smile,
While now the dew-drop twinkles on the rose.
And richest fragrance o'er the champaign flows,
Awakes the slumbering laborer's daily toil.
While now the dew-drop twinkles on the rose.
And richest fragrance o'er the champaign flows,
Awakes the slumbering laborer's daily toil.
Do e'er thy ruddy splendors gild the pile,
As o'er the earth their circling glory glows,
Where modest Virtue's unseen hand bestows
Joys that the cares of Misery oft beguile?
As o'er the earth their circling glory glows,
Where modest Virtue's unseen hand bestows
Joys that the cares of Misery oft beguile?
O! if thou dost,—to that sweet cherub say—
‘Tho Time, dim-sighted, overlook thy worth;
‘Tho Fame shall fail thy merit to display;
‘Nor glory deck thee, hallow'd of the earth;
‘Yet thou shalt shine in GOD's eternal day—
‘The heir immortal of a heavenly birth.
‘Tho Time, dim-sighted, overlook thy worth;
‘Tho Fame shall fail thy merit to display;
‘Nor glory deck thee, hallow'd of the earth;
‘Yet thou shalt shine in GOD's eternal day—
‘The heir immortal of a heavenly birth.
ELLA.
| [Poems by Smith in] The Echo | |