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.