Rocks the poor sea-boy on the dripping shrouds, View the drear tempest, and the yawning deep, SONNET V. THE WINTER TRAVELLER. GOD help thee, Traveller, on thy journey far; Of spirits howling on their stormy car, A dismal night-and on my wakeful bed Thoughts, Traveller, of thee, will fill my head, And him, who rides where wind and waves contend, And strives, rude cradled on the seas, to guide His lonely bark through the tempestuous tide. POEMS OF SONNET VI. BY CAPEL LOFFT, ESQ. [This Sonnet was addressed to the author of this volume, and was occasioned by several little quatorzains, misnomered sonnets, which he published in the "Monthly Mirror." He begs leave to return his thanks to the much respected writer for the permission so politely granted to insert it here, and for the good opinion he has been pleased to express of his productions.] YE, whose aspirings court the muse of lays, The Sonnet, by adorning with a name Of that distinguished import, lays, though sweet, Of that so varied and peculiar frame. Oh think! to vindicate its genuine praise Those it beseems, whose Lyre a favoring impulse sways. SONNET VII. RECANTATORY, IN REPLY TO THE FOREGOING ELEGANT ADMONITION. LET the sublimer Muse, who, wrapt in night, The impetuous tenor of her hardy flight. Who wake the wood-nymphs from the forest shade And give it power to please, as soft it flows SONNET VIII. ON HEARING THE SOUNDS OF AN EOLIAN HARP. So ravishingly soft upon the tide Of the infuriate gust, it did career, It might have soothed its rugged charioteer, Borne to some wizard stream, the form appear Poured his lone song, to which the surge replied: SONNET IX. 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. A BALLAD. BE hushed, be hushed, ye bitter winds, Lie still, lie still, ye busy thoughts, That wring with grief my aching breast. Oh, cruel was my faithless love, To leave the breast by him betrayed. When exiled from my native home, He should have wiped the bitter tear: My child moans sadly in my arms, The winds they will not let it sleep; Ah, little knows the hapless babe, What makes its wretched mother weep! Now lie thee still, my infant dear, And never will he shelter thee. Oh, that I were but in my grave, THE LULLABY OF A FEMALE CONVICT TO HER CHILD, THE NIGHT PREVIOUS TO EXECUTION. * SLEEP, baby mine, enkerchieft on my bosom, Thy cries they pierce again my bleeding breast; Baby, why dost thou keep this sad complaining, Poor wayward wretch! and who will heed thy weeping, Sleep, baby mine.-To-morrow I must leave thee, * Sir Philip Sidney has a poem beginning, "Sleep, baby mine." |