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Mis à jour: 24 juin 2025
No more the flo'wry scenes of pleasure rise, Nor charming prospects greet the mental eyes, No more with joy we view that lovely face Smiling, disportive, flush'd with ev'ry grace. The tear of forrow flows from ev'ry eye, Groans answer groans, and sighs to sighs reply; What sudden pangs shot thro' each aching heart, When, Death, thy messenger dispatch'd his dart?
Au comte de Dartmouth . Hail, happy day, when, smiling like the morn, Fair Freedom rose New England to adorn: Long lost to realms beneath the northern skies She shines supreme, while hated faction dies. Soon us appear'd the Goddess long desir'd Sick at the view, she languish'd and expir'd. Thus from the splendors of the morning light The owl in sadness seeks the caves of night.
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