Poems (Campbell)/To the Sun

by Dorothea Primrose Campbell

For works with similar titles, see To the Sun.

TO THE SUN.

Thou lovely orb, whose golden beam,
In floods of glory, shines supreme,—
Once could I view, with raptur'd glance,
The circling seasons round thee dance,
Could own the joy that nature felt,
And feel my soul in rapture melt.

But now, sad change! I fly thy light,
And plunge amid the shades of night;
Or, if thy soul-enliv'ning ray
Upon my weary eyelids-play,
'Tis only to increase the pain,
The burning fever in my brain.

But soon this scene of sorrow o'er,
My bursting heart shall feel no more;
Soon shall thy lovely beam be shed
Upon my dark, cold, narrow bed,
And all that lives beneath thy light
Be shut for ever from my sight.