Poems Namely, The English Orator; An Address to Thomas Pennant Sonnets; An Epistle to a College Friend; and The Lock Transformed. With notes on The English Orator. By Mr. Polwhele |
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209
SONNET the SEVENTH.
[O Circle, whether erst the Lightning's Lance]
O Circle, whether erst the Lightning's LanceWith its keen Azure shot thy wavy Way;
Or—such the Tales of Village-Maidens say—
The merry Fayes (what Time their Troops advance
To thread the fleeting Mazes of the Dance,
While bends dim Iris in the Lunar Ray)
Form'd, as they tripp'd with many a twinkling Glance,
Thy Ring, to speak their Revels to the Day;
Still fancying, lovely Circle, that I trace
Amid the Features of thy fading Dyes,
The little Footsteps of the Fairy Race—
Still, 'round the springing Verdure, shall arise
In soft Relief, thy gently-curving Grace—
Too trivial but for fond poetic Eyes!
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