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The sonnet, by adorning with a name:
O think! to vindicate its genuine praise
RECANTATORY, IN REPLY TO THE FOREGOING ELEGANT :
Let the sublimer muse, who, wrapp'd in night,
Rides on the raven pennons of the storm,
Or o'er the field, with purple havoc warm, Lashes her steeds, and sings along the fight; Let her, whom more ferocious strains delight,
Disdain the plaintive sonnet's little form,
And scorn to its wild cadence to conform, The impetuous tenor of her hardy flight. But me, far lowest of the sylvan train, Who wake the wood-nymphs from the forest
shade With wildest song ;-me, much behoves thy aid Of mingled melody, to grace my strain, And give it power to please, as soft it flows Through the smooth murmurs of thy frequent close.
SONNET ON HEARING THE SOUNDS OF AN
So ravishingly soft upon the tide
Of the infuriate gust, it did career,
It might have sooth'd its rugged charioteer, And sunk him to a zephyr; then it died, Melting in melody ;-and I descried,
Borne to some wizard stream, the form appear
Of Druid sage, who on the far-off ear Pour'd his lone song, to which the surge replied: Or thought I heard the hapless pilgrim's knell,
Lost in some wild enchanted forest's bounds,
By unseen beings sung; or are these sounds Such, as ’tis said, at night are known to swell By startled shepherd on the lonely heath, Keeping his night-watch sad, portending death ?
What art thou, Mighty One! and where thy seat?
Thou broodest on the calm that cheers the lands. And thou dost bear within thine awful hands The rolling thunders and the lightnings fleet. Stern on thy dark-wrought car of cloud and wind, Thou guidest the northern storm at night's dead
Or on the red wing of the fierce Monsoon,
Dost thou repose ? or in the solitude
Hears nightly howl the tiger's hungry brood ? Vain thought! the confines of his throne to trace, Who glows through all the fields of boundless space.
SONNET TO CAPEL LOFFT, ESQ.
LOFFt, unto thee one tributary song
The simple Muse, admiring, fain would bring; She longs to lisp thee to the listening throng,
And with thy name to bid the woodlands ring. Fain would she blazon all thy virtues forth,
Thy warm philanthropy, thy justice mild, Would say how thou didst foster kindred worth,
And to thy bosom snatch'd Misfortune's child : Firm she would paint thee, with becoming zeal,
Upright, and learned, as the Pylian sire, Would say how sweetly thou couldst sweep the
lyre, And show thy labours for the public weal,
Ten thousand virtues tell with joys supreme, But ah! she shrinks abash'd before the arduous
SONNET TO THE MOON.
WRITTEN IN NOVEMBER.
SUBLIME, emerging from the misty verge
Of the horizon dim, thee, Moon, I hail,
As sweeping o'er the leafless grove, the gale Seems to repeat the year's funereal dirge. Now Autumn sickens on the languid sight,
And leaves bestrew the wanderer’s lonely way, Now unto thee, pale arbitress of night,
With double joy my homage do I pay.
When clouds disguise the glories of the day, And stern November sheds her boisterous blight,
How doubly sweet to mark the moony ray Shoot through the mist from the ethereal height,
And, still unchanged, back to the memory bring The smiles Favonian of life's earliest spring.
SONNET WRITTEN AT THE GRAVE OF A
Fast from the West the fading day-streaks fly,
And ebon Night assumes her solemn sway, Yet here alone, unheeding time, I lie,
And o’er my friend still pour the plaintive lay. Oh! 'tis not long since, George, with thee I woo'd
The maid of musings by yon moaning wave;
And hail'd the moon's mild beam, which, now
renew'd, Seems sweetly sleeping on thy silent grave! The busy world pursues its boisterous way,
The noise of revelry still echoes round, Yet I am sad while all beside is gay;
Yet still I weep o'er thy deserted mound. Oh! that, like thee, I might bid sorrow cease, And’neath the greensward sleep the sleep of peace.
SONNET TO MISFORTUNE.
MISFORTUNE, I am young, my chin is bare,
And I have wonder'd much when men have told, How youth was free from sorrow and from care, That thou shouldst dwell with me, and leave
the old. Sure dost not like me!-Shriveld hag of hate,
My phiz, and thanks to thee, is sadly long;
I am not either, beldame, over strong ; Nor do I wish at all to be thy mate, For thou, sweet Fury, art my utter hate. Nay, shake not thus thy miserable pate; I am yet young, and do not like thy face; And, lest thou shouldst resume the wild-goose chase, I'll tell thee something all thy heat to assuage, - Thou wilt not hit my fancy in my age.