SONNET
.
Now
,
young-ey'd
Spring
,
on
gentle
breezes
borne
,
'Mid
the
deep
woodlands
,
hills
,
and
vales
,
and
bowers
,
Unfolds
her
leaves
,
her
blossoms
,
and
her
flowers
,
Pouring
their
soft
luxuriance
on
the
morn
.
O
!
how
unlike
the
wither'd
,
wan
,
and
worn
,
And
limping
Winter
,
that
o'er
russet
moors
,
And
plashy
fields
,
and
ice-incrusted
shores
Strays
,
—
and
commands
his
rising
winds
to
mourn
!
Protracted
Life
,
thou
art
ordain'd
to
wear
A
form
like
his
;
—
and
,
shou'd
thy
gifts
be
mine
,
I
tremble
lest
a
kindred
influence
drear
Steal
on
my
mind
;
—
but
pious
Hope
benign
,
The
Soul's
new
day-spring
,
shall
avert
the
fear
,
And
gild
Existence
in
her
dim
decline
.