Bright God of Day, whose long-enshrouded beams
Now dart refulgent on the glancing streams,
Since thou did’st suffer, through the months that claim
The boon consummate of thy cloudless flame,
Dim Auster still, in dank, and dropping groves,
To breathe the sullen strain that Winter loves,
Why now invest, with all thy pomp of light,
The tardy morning, and the hast’ning night?
But soon shall this late, gaudy race be run,
Soon shall thy steeds our chill horizon shun;
Their labouring way through billowy ether gain,
While the pale ice-drop trembles on their mane.
Not with such transient fires, and slack’ning pace,
May thy own HAYLEY own his mortal race!
Be life for him one lengthen’d summer day,
With fame, health, friendship, love, and pleasure gay;
O! be it long ere wintry powers assail,
Spread the dull cloud, or wake the stormy gale!
Intrusive Sun!—more dazzling splendours play
On these moist eyes, with uncongenial ray;
Unwished, unwelcome, in these vacant hours,
Through which affection droops, and fancy lours;
Send, as they seek a less inspiring sky,
The gaze reverted, and the straining eye
To wood-crown’d Sussex, in whose bright domain,
The Muses on their new Parnassus reign.
But now, O Sun! from yonder western hill,
Thy glories soften on the gilded rill;
Yet, since the ruthless hand of distance spreads
To my reverted gaze, her waste of meads;
Rears barrier mountains, ting’d with thy last ray,
Ah! what shall cheer the long ensuing way?
Lone deprivation breathes respondent sighs,
The gilded stream grows pale, and Eve’s chill gales arise.