Sonnet I

When Life's realities the Soul perceives
Vain, dull, perchance corrosive, if she glows
With rising energy, and open throws
The golden gates of Genius, she achieves
His fairy clime delighted, and receives
In those gay paths, deck'd with the thornless rose,
Blest compensation.--Lo! with alter'd brows
Lours the false World, and the fine Spirit grieves;
No more young Hope tints with her light and bloom
The darkening Scene.--Then to ourselves we say,
Come, bright IMAGINATION, come! relume
Thy orient lamp; with recompensing ray
Shine on the Mind, and pierce its gathering gloom
With all the fires of intellectual Day!