Hope

As one who, long by wasting sickness worn, Weary has watched the lingering night, and heard Unmoved the carol of the matin bird Salute his lonely porch; now first at morn Goes forth, leaving his melancholy bed; He the green slope and level meadow views, Delightful bathed with slow-ascending dews; Or marks the clouds, that o'er the mountain's head In varying forms fantastic wander white; Or turns his ear to every random song, Heard the green river's winding marge along, The whilst each sense is steeped in still delight. So o'er my breast young Summer's breath I feel, Sweet Hope! thy fragrance pure and healing incense steal!