The Poetry Corner

Sonnet XCVI.

By Anna Seward

The breathing freshness of the shining Morn, Whose beams glance yellow on the distant fields, A sweet, unutterable pleasure yields To my dejected sense, that turns with scorn From the light joys of Dissipation born. Sacred Remembrance all my bosom shields Against each glittering lance she gaily wields, Warring with fond Regrets, that silent mourn The Heart's dear comforts lost. - But, NATURE, thou, Thou art resistless still; - and yet I ween Thy present balmy gales, and vernal blow, To MEMORY owe the magic of their scene; For with such fragrant breath, such orient rays, Shone the soft mornings of my youthful days.