To the RAINBOW, Loveliest of the meteor-train, Like Chearfulness thou art wont to gazeAlways on the brightest blaze, Canst from setting suns deduce Varied gleams and sprightly hues; R. O TO TWILIGHT. Friend of the pensive wanderer, Twilight, hail!, I joy to see thee roll thy sea of clouds Athwart the crimson throne Of the departing sun. For then what various objects, dimly seen, By wonder-working Fancy touch'd, acquire And urge Fear's hurried step. Lo! thine attendant, the low-sailing bat To hail thee, pours her strain. I love thy simple garb; no brilliant stars Adorn thy dusky vest, unlike to that Worn by thy sister Night, Save when she reigns in storms. Nor canst thou boast the many-tinted robe Thine is a veil of grey, Meet for the cloister'd maid. Thou purse of saddening thoughts, prolong thy stay, Let me adore thee still! Eve's glowing grace, Night's fire-embroider'd vest, Alike displease my eye; For I am Sorrow's child, and thy cold showers, For oh! to me futurity appears Wrapt in a chilling veil of glooms and mists, Nor seems one tint or star To deck her furrow'd brow, But slowly cross her path, imperfect shapes And pale my cold, sunk cheek. But see -the unwelcome moon unveils her head, (Those hours are gone in which I hail'd her beams) Distinctness spreads around, And mimic day appears. I loathe the cheerful sight, as still my fate, The scene I cannot share. I'll to my couch, yet not alas to rest ; My dim and sleepless eyes. AMELIA OPIE. 1792. LINES WRITTEN IN THE 16th CENTURY. For aye be hynce ye vayne delyghts Then welcome armes yatte folded lye, From heavie breste the long-drawn sye, The purses of the browe, The loke yrooted to the growne, The tong ychaynde withouten sowne, |