Of a peculiar sort, a consummation; Which, had I felt, these scribblings might have been Verses from which the soul would never ween; And revell'd in a chat that ceased not, bland Still sounded in my ears, when I no more Could hear your footsteps touch the gravelly floor. Again I shake your hand, friend Charles, good night. September, 1816. PESCA.SC. SONNETS. I. TO A FRIEND WHO SENT ME SOME ROSES. A S late I rambled in the happy fields, What time the skylark shakes the tremulous dew From his lush clover covert; when anew Adventurous knights take up their dinted shields; I saw the sweetest flower wild nature yields, A fresh-blown musk-rose; 'twas the first that threw Its sweets upon the summer: graceful it grew I thought the garden-rose it far excell❜d; |