The sonnet, by adorning with a name Of that distinguish'd import, lays, though sweet, O think! to vindicate its genuine praise sways. SONNET. RECANTATORY, IN REPLY TO THE FOREGOING ELEGANT ADMONITION. LET the sublimer muse, who, wrapp'd in night, Or o'er the field, with purple havoc warm, Who wake the wood-nymphs from the forest 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 EOLIAN HARP. 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? SONNET. 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 noon, 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 theme. SONNET TO THE MOON. WRITTEN IN NOVEMBER. SUBLIME, emerging from the misty verge SONNET WRITTEN AT THE GRAVE OF A FRIEND. 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!-Shrivel'd hag of hate, Thou wilt not hit my fancy in my age. |