William Lisle Bowles (1762–1850)

AS one who, long by wasting sickness worn,

Weary has watched the lingering night, and heard,

Heartless, 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 in 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:

With such delight o’er all my heart I feel

Sweet Hope! thy fragrance pure and healing incense steal!