Fair was the face of this illumined dawn,
With vernal brightness, vernal softness fair,
The sun incessant wooed the blushing morn
And all the youthful hours laughed round the pair:
But ere the evening, what a change was there!
Harsh thunders roll and fork~ lightnings fly;
Hiemal tempests brood along the air
Or fall in torrents from an angry sky.
Ah! scarce less mutable is man's brief day;
Soon are his early prospects clouded o'er,
And those soft suns that shot their April ray
Across his primrose pathway shine no more:
Grief on the present drops her tearful showers,
And apprehension over the future lours.
Thomas Park (1759-1834)
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