Laura Sophia Temple



Fair Nature looks jocund, her features are gay,
    And ripe are the Roses of Love,
The children of Summer blush wild on the spray,
    And soft are the songs of the grove.

Sweet season ! that wings ev'ry moment with joy,
    And gilds ev'ry cheek with a smile,
That chases the dark-brooding clouds from the sky,
    And substitutes brightness the while.

I gaze with delight on thy features so bland,
    Yet watch their expanse with a sigh,
For ah ! I remember that Winter's cold hand
    Will doom all their graces to die.

Yet why should reflection's imbittering pow'r
    The charms of the present impair,
And why should the bloom of the bright-passing hour
    Grow pale at the frown of despair?

The broad Sun that rises from Ocean's dark breast
    To pour o'er the landscape his rays,
At the call of grey Evening retires to his rest,
    And hides in her mantle his blaze.

Yet who would forego his all-glorious embrace
    At the thought that those glories must sink,
Tho' the dull band of Night will arrest his bright race
    Shall we scruple his noontide to drink?

And view the soft tints of each dew-sprinkled flower
    That scents the light wings of the gale,
We mourn that their beauties can last but an hour,
    Yet fail not their musk to inhale.

Then hence ev'ry foe to my bosom's repose,
    And welcome the breezes of Morn,
I'll gather with transport the Summer's fair rose,
    Nor fear that it harbours a thorn.

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