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.