The Posthumous Works of Ann Eliza Bleecker/To Mr. L—

The sun that gilds the western sky
 * And makes the orient red,

Whose gladsome rays delight the eye
 * And cheer the lonely shade,

Withdraws his vegetative heat,
 * To southern climes retires;

While absent, we supply his seat
 * With gross, material fires.

'Tis new-year's morn; each rustic swain
 * Ambrosial cordials take;

And round the fire the festive train
 * A semi-circle make:

While clouds ascend, of sable smoke,
 * From pipes of ebon hue,

With inharmonick song and joke
 * They pass the morning through.

You tell me this is solitude,
 * This Contemplation's seat;

Ah no! the most impervious wood
 * Affords me no retreat.

But let me recollect: 'tis said,
 * When Orpheus tun'd his lyre

The Fauns and Satyrs left the shade,
 * Warm'd by celestial fire.

His vocal lays and lyra made
 * Inanimated marble weep;

Swift-footed Time then paus'd, 'tis said,
 * And sea-born monsters left the deep:

Impatient trees, to hear his strain
 * Rent from the ground their roots?---

Such is my fate, as his was then,
 * Surrounded here---by brutes.