Rain! endless rain! methinks the weeping clouds
Should long ere this have deepest grief assuaged
With their fast-falling tears. Quick-footed Winds!
Drive these o’er-gloomy mourners far away,
So pitilessly selfish in their woe.
Poor shiv’ring Earth! when will these spiteful ones
Hear her sad sighs, and cease to interpose
Between her and her love—the god of day—
Ready to woo her with his brightest smiles,
But by these marplots thwarted in his wish?
Say, ill-used orb, who, in most gen’rous mood,
Hast often given these traitor clouds attire
Of roseate hue, superbly fringed with gold,
Canst thou fresh honours on the rebels fling?
Wilt thou again recline thy weary head,
In summer eve, on their ungrateful breasts,
And fondly kiss them with thy ruddy lips?
And ye, sweet, blue-eyed, even-temper’d skies,
That look so happy all the sunlit hours,
And in the night wear such a tranquil face,
When moon and stars hang up their shining lamps,
When shall we see you? Peevish clouds, begone!