TO THE SAME.

Look, dearest, what a glory from the sun Has fringed that cloud with silver edges bright, And how it seems to drink the golden light Of evening—you would think that it had won A splendour of its own: but lo! anon You shall behold a dark mass float away, Emptied of light and radiance, from the day, Its glory faded utterly and gone. And doubt not we should suffer the same loss As this weak vapour, which awhile did seem Translucent and made pure of all its dross, If, having shared the light, we should misdeem That light our own, or count we hold in fee That which we must receive continually.