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18
POETICAL
They strike the ear of night,
Make weep the eyes of day;
They make mad the roaring winds,
And with tempests play.
Like a fiend in a cloud
With howling woe,
After night I do crowd
And with night will go;
I turn my back to the east
From whence comforts have increased;
For light doth seize my brain
With frantic pain.
SONG.
FRESH from the dewy hill, the merry year
Smiles on my head and mounts his flaming car;
Round my young brows the laurel wreathes a shade
And rising glories beam around my head.
My feet are wing'd while o'er the dewy lawn
I meet my maiden risen like the morn:
Oh bless those holy feet, like angels' feet;
Oh bless those limbs, beaming with heavenly light!
