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. SONNET XCVII. TO A COFFIN-LID. Thou silent Door of our eternal sleep, Sickness, and pain, debility, and woes, All the dire train of ills Existence knows, Thou shuttest out FOR EVER!--Why then weep This fix'd tranquillity,--so long!--so deep! In a dear FATHER's clay-cold Form?--where rose No energy, enlivening Health bestows, Thro' many a tedious year, that us'd to creep In languid deprivation; while the flame Of intellect, resplendent once confess'd, Dark, and more dark, each passing day became. Now that angelic lights the SOUL invest, Calm let me yield to _thee_ a joyless Frame, THOU SILENT DOOR OF EVERLASTING REST. _Lichfield, March 1790._ SONNET XCVIII. Since my griev'd mind some energy regains, Industrious habits can, at times, repress The weight of filial woe, the deep distress Of life-long separation; yet its pains, Oft do they throb along these fever'd veins.-- My rest has lost its balm, the fond caress Wont the dear aged forehead to impress At midnight, as he slept;--nor now obtains My uprising the blest news, that cou'd impart Joy to the morning, when its dawn had brought Some health to that weak Frame, o'er which my heart With fearful fondness yearn'd, and anxious thought.-- Time, and the HOPE that robs the mortal Dart Of its fell sting, shall cheer me--as they ought. SONNET XCIX. ON THE VIOLENT THUNDER STORMS. DECEMBER 1790. Remorseless WINTER! in thy iron reign Comes the loud whirlwind, on thy pinion borne; The _long long_ night,--the tardy, leaden morn; The grey frost, riv'ling lane, and hill, and plain; Chill silent snows, and heavy, pattering rain. These are thy _known_ allies;--and Life forlorn, Yet patient, droops, nor breathes repinings vain; But now, Usurper, thou hast madly torn From Summer's hand his stores of angry sway; His rattling thunders with thy winds unite, On thy pale snows those livid lightnings play, That pour their deathful splendors o'er his night, To poise the pleasures of his golden day, Soft gales, blue skies, and long-protracted light. SONNET C. WRITTEN DECEMBER 1790.