Classic Poem

ON THE Beauties OF S PRING OF THE W EATHER, AND OF THE S CENE, UPON THE DAY ON WHICH THE A NGEL -M OTHER EXPIRED .

C HILL'D is the hope these gales inspire,
The heart repels this vain attire; —
What means the landscape, with its joy,
When Time that spirit can destroy,
Whose wand of Genius , and of Taste,
Cheer'd into life the barren waste,
And made this Fairy-land a bower,
Touch'd by their fascinating power?
To me , an insult on my tears,
The Heaven-illumin'd world appears!
Bereft of that enlivening ray,
Which, on the scene it form'd, could play: —
For Love has parted from its breath,
And sunk into the arms of Death.
No more shall these enchantments find
Their living sun-beam of the mind ,
Calm as the lucid Queen of Night,
But as the Morning's radiance bright; —
Which never dazzled with its flame,
Nor vanish'd, if the tempest came.
Yet can I scent the Earth's perfume,
Can see the budding flowret's bloom,
Can feel the Zephyr's passing gale
Breathe on the air its vernal sail;
Nor am I deaf to Philomel ,
Whose note can soothe regret so well.
But, Angel-spirit , ever dear,
To thee I consecrate the tear:
Alas! what glow can Spring impart,
When all is Winter — at the heart?
And what is Nature's charm, to me ,
Who lost her pride in losing thee?