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.