 | The rural lyre |  |
92
SONNET TO ---.
Lo! dreary Winter, howling o'er the waste,
Imprints the glebe, bids ev'ry channel fill—
His tears in torrents down the mountains haste,
His breath augments despair, and checks our will!
Yet thy pure flame through lonely night is seen,
To lure the shiv'ring pilgrim o'er the green—
He hastens on, nor heeds the pelting blast:
Thy spirit softly breathes—“The worst is past;
Warm thee, poor wand'rer, 'mid thy devious way!
On thy cold bosom hangs unwholesome air;
Ah! pass not this bright fire! Thou long may'st stray
Ere through the glens one other spark appear.”
Imprints the glebe, bids ev'ry channel fill—
His tears in torrents down the mountains haste,
His breath augments despair, and checks our will!
Yet thy pure flame through lonely night is seen,
To lure the shiv'ring pilgrim o'er the green—
He hastens on, nor heeds the pelting blast:
Thy spirit softly breathes—“The worst is past;
Warm thee, poor wand'rer, 'mid thy devious way!
On thy cold bosom hangs unwholesome air;
Ah! pass not this bright fire! Thou long may'st stray
Ere through the glens one other spark appear.”
Thus breaks thy friendship on my sinking mind,
And lures me on, while sorrow dies behind.
And lures me on, while sorrow dies behind.
| The rural lyre | |