 | Miscellaneous poems |  |
134
SONNET II.—NOON.
Phoebus, from his burning throne,Darts direct his blazing eye;
Flow'rs, their morning fragrance gone,
Hang their heads, and seem to die.
Flocks and herds now seek the shade,
Or lave them in the cooling streams;
The rustic swain, and nut-brown maid,
In the forest shun his beams;
While trees, and plants, and shrubs, on hill, in grove,
Droop 'neath the fervour of the rays they love.
| Miscellaneous poems | |