Sonnet XLII

THE dark and pillowy cloud, the sallow trees,Seem o'er the ruins of the year to mourn;And, cold and hollow, the inconstant breezeSobs thro' the falling leaves and wither'd fern.O'er the tall brow of yonger chalky bourn,The evening shades their gather'd darkness fling,While, by the lingering light, I scarce discernThe shrieking night-jar sail on heavy wing.Ah! yet a little——and propitious SpringCrown'd with fresh flowers shall wake the woodland strain;But no gay change revolving seasons bringTo call forth pleasure from the soul of pain!Bid Syren Hope resume her long-lost part,And chase the vulture Care—that feeds upon the heart!