Sonnet XCVI

The breathing freshness of the shining Morn,

Whose beams glance yellow on the distant fields,

A sweet, unutterable pleasure yields

To my dejected sense, that turns with scorn

From the light joys of Dissipation born.

Sacred Remembrance all my bosom shields

Against each glittering lance she gaily wields,

Warring with fond Regrets, that silent mourn

The Heart's dear comforts lost.—But, Nature, thou,

Thou art resistless still;—and yet I ween

Thy present balmy gales, and vernal blow,

To Memory owe the magic of their scene;

For with such fragrant breath, such orient rays,

Shone the soft mornings of my youthful days.