AGNES DE CLIFFORD. THE SUN his early ray has shed The cloud which rested there thro' night He treads the dew-drop spangled soil. With verdant leaves, and branches wide, Cau scarce be said the calm to break That reigns o'er mountain, wood, and lake. 'Tis not the silent transient calm That brings the twilight hour's balm, When sunlight the horizon gilds, Of clouds, on which the setting rays As flitting o'er her virgin orb, Ere life's dark storms, its clouds and tears, And what were Love's even dearest hour That lurks beneath her placid ray His mistress' smile hath more of charm- Of jealousy and dark distrust, The hour when hearts in rapture meet. Is it to feel morn's breezy health |