The Poetical Works of Anna Seward :: :: University of Virginia Library

When life's realities the soul perceives
Vain, dull, perchance corrosive, if she glow
With rising energy, and open throw
The golden gates of Genius, she achieves
His fairy clime delighted, and receives
In those gay paths, where thornless roses blow,
Full compensation.—Lo, with alter'd brow
Lours the false world, and the fine spirit grieves!
No more young Hope tints with her light and bloom
The darkening scene.—Then to ourselves we say,
Come, bright Imagination, come! relume
Thy orient lamp; with recompensing ray
Shine on the mind, and pierce its gathering gloom
With all the fires of intellectual day!

I have slightly altered this Sonnet since the Collection was last published.—Anna Seward.

123

SONNET II.

The future, and its gifts alone we prize,
Few joys the present brings, and those alloy'd;
Th' expected fulness leaves an aching void;
But Hope stands by, and lifts her sunny eyes
That gild the days to come.—She still relies
The phantom Happiness not thus shall glide
Always from life.—Alas!—yet ill betide
Austere Experience, when she coldly tries
In distant roses to discern the thorn!
Ah! is it wise to anticipate our pain?
Arriv'd, it then is soon enough to mourn.
Nor call the dear consoler false and vain,
When yet again, shining through April-tears,
Those fair enlight'ning eyes beam on advancing years.

124

SONNET III. WRITTEN AT BUXTON IN A RAINY SEASON.

From these wild heights, where oft the mists descend
In rains, that shroud the sun, and chill the gale,
Each transient, gleaming interval we hail,
And rove the naked vallies, and extend
Our gaze around, where yon vast mountains blend
With billowy clouds, that o'er their summits sail;
Pondering, how little Nature's charms befriend
The barren scene, monotonous, and pale.
Yet solemn when the darkening shadows fleet
Successive o'er the wide and silent hills,
Gilded by watry sun-beams, then we meet
Peculiar pomp of vision. Fancy thrills,
And owns there is no scene so rude and bare,
But Nature sheds or grace or grandeur there.

125

SONNET IV. TO HONORA SNEYD,

WHOSE HEALTH WAS ALWAYS BEST IN WINTER.

MAY 1770.

And now the youthful, gay, capricious Spring,
Piercing her showery clouds with crystal light,
And with their hues reflected streaking bright
Her radiant bow, bids all her warblers sing;
The lark, shrill carolling on soaring wing;
The lonely thrush, in brake, with blossoms white,
That tunes his pipe so loud; while, from the sight
Coy bending their dropt heads, young cowslips fling
Rich perfume o'er the fields.—It is the prime
Of hours that beauty robes:—yet all they gild,
Cheer and delight in this their fragrant time,
For thy dear sake, to me less pleasure yield
Than, veil'd in sleet, and rain, and hoary rime,
Dim Winter's naked hedge and plashy field.

Afterwards Mrs Edgeworth.

126

SONNET V. TO A FRIEND, WHO THINKS SENSIBILITY A MISFORTUNE.

Ah, thankless! canst thou envy him who gains
The Stoic's cold and indurate repose?
Thou! with thy lively sense of bliss and woes!—
From a false balance of life's joys and pains
Thou deem'st him happy.—Plac'd mid fair domains,
Where full the river down the valley flows,
As wisely might'st thou wish thy home had rose
On the parch'd surface of unwater'd plains,
For that, when long the heavy rain descends,
Bursts over guardian banks their whelming tide!—
Seldom the wild and wasteful flood extends,
But, spreading plenty, verdure, beauty wide,
The cool translucent stream perpetual bends,
And laughs the vale as the bright waters glide.

127

SONNET VI. WRITTEN AT LICHFIELD,

IN AN EASTERN APARTMENT OF THE BISHOP'S PALACE, WHICH COMMANDS A VIEW OF STOW VALLEY.

In this chill morning of a wintry Spring
I look into the gloom'd and rainy vale;
The sullen clouds, the stormy winds assail,
Lour on the fields, and with impetuous wing
Disturb the lake:—but Love and Memory cling
To their known scene, in this cold influence pale;
Yet priz'd, as when it bloom'd in Summer's gale,
Ting'd by his setting sun.—When sorrows fling,
Or slow disease, thus o'er some beauteous form
Their shadowy languors, form, devoutly dear
As thine to me, Honora, with more warm
And anxious gaze the eyes of love sincere
Bend on the charms, dim in their tintless snow,
Than when with health's vermilion hues they glow.

128

SONNET VII.

By Derwent's rapid stream as oft I stray'd,
With Infancy's light step and glances wild,
And saw vast rocks, on steepy mountains pil'd,
Frown o'er th' umbrageous glen; or pleased survey'd
The cloudy moonshine in the shadowy glade,
Romantic Nature to th' enthusiast child
Grew dearer far than when serene she smil'd,
In uncontrasted loveliness array'd.
But O! in every scene, with sacred sway,
Her graces fire me; from the bloom that spreads
Resplendent in the lucid morn of May,
To the green light the little glow-worm sheds
On mossy banks, when midnight glooms prevail,
And softest silence broods o'er all the dale.

129

SONNET VIII.

[_]

TRANSLATION.

Short is the time the oldest being lives,
Nor has longevity one hour to waste;
Life's duties are proportion'd to the haste
With which it fleets away;—each day receives
Its task, that if neglected, surely gives
The morrow double toil.—Ye, who have pass'd
In idle sport the days that fled so fast,
Days, that nor Grief recalls, nor Care retrieves,
At length be wise, and think, that of the part
Remaining in that vital period given,
How short the date, and at the prospect start,
Ere to the extremest verge your steps be driven!
Nor let a moment unimprov'd depart,
But view it as the latest trust of Heaven!

130

SONNET IX.

Seek not, my Lesbia, the sequester'd dale,
Or bear thou to its shades a tranquil heart;
Since rankles most in Solitude the smart
Of injur'd charms and talents, when they fail
To meet their due regard;—nor ev'n prevail
Where most they wish to please:—Yet, since thy part
Is large in life's chief blessings, why desert
Sullen the world?—Alas! how many wail
Dire loss of the best comforts Heaven can grant!
While they the bitter tear in secret pour,
Smote by the death of friends, disease, or want,
Slight wrongs if thy self-valuing soul deplore,
Thou but resemblest, in thy lonely haunt,
Narcissus pining on the watry shore.

131

SONNET X. TO HONORA SNEYD.

APRIL 1773.

Honora, should that cruel time arrive
When 'gainst my truth thou should'st my errors poize,
Scorning remembrance of our vanish'd joys;
When for the love-warm looks, in which I live,
But cold respect must greet me, that shall give
No tender glance, no kind regretful sighs;
When thou shalt pass me with averted eyes,
Feigning thou see'st me not, to sting, and grieve,
And sicken my sad heart, I could not bear
Such dire eclipse of thy soul-cheering rays;
I could not learn my struggling heart to tear
From thy loved form, that thro' my memory strays;
Nor in the pale horizon of despair
Endure the wintry and the darken'd days.

132

SONNET XI.

How sweet to rove, from summer sun-beams veil'd,
In gloomy dingles; or to trace the tide
Of wandering brooks, their pebbly beds that chide;
To feel the west-wind cool refreshment yield,
That comes soft creeping o'er the flowery field,
And shadow'd waters; in whose bushy side
The mountain-bees their fragrant treasure hide
Murmuring; and sings the lonely thrush conceal'd:
Then, Ceremony, in thy gilded halls,
When forced and frivolous the themes arise,
With bow and smile unmeaning, O! how palls
At thee, and thine, my sense!—how oft it sighs
For leisure, wood-lanes, dells, and water-falls;
And feels th' untemper'd heat of sultry skies!

133

SONNET XII.

JULY 1773.

Chill'd by unkind Honora's alter'd eye,
“Why droops my heart with pining woe forlorn,”
Thankless for much of good?—what thousands, born
To ceaseless toil beneath this wintry sky,
Or to brave deathful oceans surging high,
Or fell Disease's fever'd rage to mourn,
How blest to them would seem my destiny!
How dear the comforts my rash sorrows scorn!—
Affection is repaid by causeless hate!
A plighted love is changed to cold disdain!
Yet suffer not thy wrongs to shroud thy fate,
But turn, my soul, to blessings which remain;
And let this truth the wise resolve create,
The Heart estranged no anguish can regain.

134

SONNET XIII.

JULY 1773.

Thou child of Night and Silence, balmy Sleep,
Shed thy soft poppies on my aching brow!
And charm to rest the thoughts of whence, or how
Vanish'd that priz'd Affection, wont to keep
Each grief of mine from rankling into woe.
Then stern Misfortune from her bended bow
Loos'd the dire strings;—and Care, and anxious Dread
From my cheer'd heart, on sullen pinion fled.
But now, the spell dissolv'd, th' enchantress gone,
Ceaseless those cruel fiends infest my day,
And sunny hours but light them to their prey.
Then welcome midnight shades, when thy wish'd boon
May in oblivious dews my eye-lids steep,
Thou child of Night and Silence, balmy Sleep!

135

SONNET XIV.

JULY 1773.

Ingratitude, how deadly is thy smart
Proceeding from the form we fondly love!
How light, compar'd, all other sorrows prove!
Thou shed'st a Night of woe, from whence depart
The gentle beams of patience, that the heart
'Mid lesser ills, illume.—Thy victims rove
Unquiet as the ghost that haunts the grove
Where Murder spilt the life-blood.—O! thy dart
Kills more than life,—e'en all that makes life dear;
Till we “the sensible of pain” would change
For phrenzy, that defies the bitter tear;
Or wish, in kindred callousness, to range
Where moon-ey'd Idiocy, with fallen lip,
Drags the loose knee, and intermitting step.

136

SONNET XV. WRITTEN ON RISING GROUND NEAR LICHFIELD.

MAY 1774.

The evening shines in May's luxuriant pride,
And all the sunny hills at distance glow,
And all the brooks, that thro' the valley flow,
Seem liquid gold.—O! had my fate denied
Leisure, and power to taste the sweets that glide
Thro' waken'd minds, as the blest seasons go
On their still varying progress, for the woe
My heart has felt, what balm had been supplied?
But where great Nature smiles, as here she smiles,
'Mid verdant vales, and gently swelling hills,
And glassy lakes, and mazy, murmuring rills,
And narrow wood-wild lanes, her spell beguiles
Th' impatient sighs of grief, and reconciles
Poetic minds to life, with all her ills.

137

SONNET XVI. TRANSLATED FROM BOILEAU.

Apollo, at his crowded altars, tired
Of votaries, who for trite ideas thrown
Into loose verse, assume, in lofty tone,
The Poet's name, untaught, and uninspir'd,
Indignant struck the Lyre.—Straight it acquired
New powers, and complicate. Then first was known
The rigorous Sonnet, to be framed alone
By duteous bards, or by just taste admir'd.—
Go, energetic Sonnet, go, he cried,
And be the test of skill!—For rhymes that flow
Regardless of thy rules, their destin'd guide,
Yet take thy name, ah! let the boasters know
That with strict sway my jealous laws preside,
While I no wreaths on rebel verse bestow.

138

SONNET XVII.

Ah! why have I indulged my dazzled sight
With scenes in Hope's delusive mirror shewn?
Scenes, that too seldom human life hath known
In more than vision rise;—but O! how bright
The Mind's soft sorceress pour'd her rosy light
On every promis'd good;—oft on the boon
Which might at Fame's resounding shrine be won,
Then lanc'd its beams where all the Loves invite!
Now, with stern hand, Fate draws the sable veil
O'er the frail glass!—Hope, as she turns away,
The darken'd crystal drops.—Heavy and pale,
Rain-drizzling clouds quench all the darts of day:
Low mourns the wind along the gloomy dale,
And tolls the death-bell in the pausing gale.

This, and the following Sonnet, have been slightly altered by their Author since the last edition.

139

SONNET XVIII. AN EVENING IN NOVEMBER,

WHICH HAD BEEN STORMY, GRADUALLY CLEARING UP, IN A MOUNTAINOUS COUNTRY.

Ceas'd is the rain; but heavy drops yet fall
From the drench'd roof;—yet murmurs the sunk wind
Round the dim hills; can yet a passage find
Whistling thro' yon cleft rock, and ruin'd wall.
Loud roar the angry torrents, and appal
Tho' distant.—A few stars, emerging kind,
With green rays tremble thro' their misty shrouds:
And the moon gleams between the sailing clouds
On half the darken'd hill.—Now blasts remove
The shadowing clouds, and on the mountain's brow,
Full-orb'd she shines. Half sunk within its cove
Heaves the lone boat, with gulphing sound:—and lo!
Bright rolls the settling lake, and brimming rove
The vale's blue rills, and glitter as they flow!

140

SONNET XIX. TO ---

Farewell, false Friend!—our scenes of kindness close!
To cordial looks, to sunny smiles farewell!
To sweet consolings, that can grief expel,
And every joy soft sympathy bestows!
For alter'd looks, where truth no longer glows,
Thou hast prepared my heart;—and it was well
To bid thy pen th' unlook'd-for story tell,
Falsehood avow'd, that shame, nor sorrow knows.
O! when we meet,—(to meet we're destin'd, try
To avoid it as thou may'st) on either brow,
Nor in the stealing consciousness of eye,
Be seen the slightest trace of what, or how
We once were to each other;—nor one sigh
Flatter with weak regret a broken vow!

141

SONNET XX. ON READING A DESCRIPTION OF POPE'S CARDENS AT TWICKENHAM.

Ah! might I range each hallow'd bower and glade
Musæus cultur'd, many a raptured sigh
Would that dear, local consciousness supply
Beneath his willow, in the grotto's shade,
Whose roof his hand with ores and shells inlaid.
How sweet to watch, with reverential eye,
Thro' the sparr'd arch, the streams he oft survey'd,
Thine, blue Thamésis, gently wandering by!
This is the Poet's triumph, and it towers
O'er Life's pale ills, his consciousness of powers
That lift his memory from oblivion's gloom,
Secure a train of these heart-thrilling hours
By his idea deck'd in rapture's bloom,
For spirits rightly touch'd thro' ages yet to come.

142

SONNET XXI.

Proud of our lyric galaxy, I hear
Of faded Genius with supreme disdain;
As when we see the miser bend insane
O'er his full coffers, and in accents drear
Deplore imagin'd want;—and thus appear
To me those moody censors, who complain,
As Shaftsbury plain'd in a now boasted reign,
That “Poesy had left our darken'd sphere.”
Whence may the present stupid dream be traced
That now she shines not as in days foregone?
Perchance neglected, often shine in waste
Her Lights, from number into confluence run,
More than when, thinly in th' horizon placed,
Each orb shone separate, and appear'd a sun.

Of the Poets, who were contemporary with Lord Shaftsbury, Dryden, Cowley, Pope, Prior, Congreve, Gay, Addison, &c, in the period which this age styles Augustan, his lordship speaks with sovereign scorn. In his Characteristics he, without making any exception, labours to prove, that the compositions of Dryden are uniformly contemptible. See his advice to an author in the second volume of the Characteristics, and also his miscellaneous reflections, in the third volume; “If,” says he to the authors, “your “Poets are still to be Mr Bayeses, and your prose writers Sir “Rogeis, without offering at a better manner, must it follow “that the manner is good, and the wit genuine?”

Thus it is that the jealousy people of literary fame often feel of each other, produces the foolish and impolitic desire of decrying the general pretensions of the Age to Genius.— Their narrow selfishness leads them to betray the common cause which is their true interest to support. They persuade the credulous many, with whom envy of superior talents increases their willingne sto despise, that imagination is become enervated; designing, however, to have it understood, that in their individual instance exists the sole exception,

“For they would each bestride the narrow world
“Like a Colossus.”

143

SONNET XXII. SUBJECT CONTINUED.

You, whose dull spirits feel not the fine glow
Enthusiasm breathes, no more of light
Perceive ye in rapt Poesy, tho' bright
In Fancy's richest colouring, than can flow
From jewel'd treasures in the central night
Of their deep caves.—You have no sun to show
Their inborn radiance pure.—Go, snarlers, go;
Nor your defects of feeling, and of sight,
To charge upon the Poet thus presume,
Ye lightless minds, whate'er of title proud,
Scholar, or Sage, or Critic, ye assume,
Arraigning his high claims with censure loud,
Or sickly scorn; yours, yours is all the cloud,
Gems cannot sparkle in the midnight gloom.

144

SONNET XXIII. TO MISS E.S.

Do I not tell thee surly Winter's flown,
That the brook's verge is green;—and bid thee hear,
In yon irriguous vale, the blackbird clear,
At measur'd intervals, with mellow tone,
Choiring the hours of prime? and call thine ear
To the gay viol dinning in the dale,
With tabor loud, and bag-pipe's rustic drone
To merry shearer's dance;—or jest retail
From festal board, from choral roofs the song;
And speak of Masque, or Pageant, to beguile
The caustic memory of a cruel wrong?—
Thy lips acknowledge this a generous wile,
And bid me still the effort kind prolong;
But ah! they wear a cold and joyless smile.

“of prime.”

—Milton's Par. Lost.

145

SONNET XXIV.

[_]

TRANSLATION.

Behold the day an image of the year!
The year an image of our life's short span!
Morn, like the Spring, with growing light began,
Spring, like our youth, with joy, and beauty fair;
Noon picturing Summer;—Summer's ardent sphere
Manhood's gay portrait.—Eve, like Autumn, wan,
Autumn resembling faded age in man;
Night, with its silence, and its darkness drear,
Emblem of Winter's frore and gloomy reign,
When torpid lie the vegetative powers;
Winter, so shrunk, so cold, reminds us plain
Of the mute grave, that o'er the dim corse lours;
There shall the weary rest, nor aught remain
To the pale slumberer of life's checker'd hours!

146

SONNET XXV. PETRARCH to VAUCLUSE.

Fortunate Vale! exulting Hill! dear Plain!
Where morn, and eve, my soul's fair ido! stray'd,
While all your winds, that murmur'd thro' the glade,
Stole her sweet breath; yet, yet your paths retain
Prints of her step, by fount, whose floods remain
In depth unfathom'd; 'mid the rocks, that shade,
With cavern'd arch, their sleep.—Ye streams, that play'd
Around her limbs in Summer's ardent reign,
The soft resplendence of those azure eyes
Tinged ye with living light.—The envied claim
These blest distinctions give, my lyre, my sighs,
My songs record; and, from their Poet's flame,
Bid this wild vale, its rocks, and streams arise,
Associates still of their bright Mistress' fame.

This Sonnet is not a Translation or Paraphrase, but is written in the character of Petrarch, and in imitation of his manner.

147

SONNET XXVI.

O Partial Memory! years, that fled too fast
From thee, in more than pristine beauty rise,
Forgotten all the transient tears and sighs
Somewhat that dimm'd their brightness! Thou hast chas'd
Each hovering mist from the soft suns, that grac'd
Our fresh, gay morn of youth;—the heart's high prize,
Friendship,—and all that charm'd us in the eyes
Of yet unutter'd love.—So pleasures past,
That in thy crystal prism thus glow sublime,
Beam on the gloom'd and disappointed mind,
When youth and health, in the chill'd grasp of Time,
Shudder and fade;—and cypress buds we find
Ordain'd life's blighted roses to supply,
While but reflected shine the golden lights of joy.

148

SONNET XXVII.

See wither'd Winter, bending low his head;
His ragged locks stiff with the hoary dew;
His eyes, like frozen lakes, of livid hue;
His train, a sable cloud, with murky red
Streak'd.—Ah! behold his nitrous breathings shed
Petrific death!—Lean, waleful birds pursue,
On as he sweeps o'er the dun lonely moor,
Amid the battling blast of all the winds,
That, while their sleet the climbing sailor blinds,
Lash the white surges to the sounding shore.
So com'st thou, Winter, finally to doom
The sinking year; and with thy ice-dropt sprays,
Cypress and yew, engarland her pale tomb,
Her vanish'd hopes, and aye-departed days.

149

SONNET XXVIII.

O, Genius! does thy sun-resembling beam
To the internal eyes of man display
In clearer prospect, the momentous way
That leads to peace? Do they not rather seem
Dazzled by lustres in continual stream,
Till night they find in such excessive day?
Art thou not prone, with too intense a ray,
To gild the hope improbable, the dream
Of fancied good?—or bid the sigh upbraid
Imaginary evils, and involve
All real sorrow in a darker shade?
To fond credulity, to rash resolve
Dost thou not prompt, till reason's sacred aid
And fair discretion in thy fires dissolve?

150

SONNET XXIX. SUBJECT CONTINUED.

If Genius have its danger, grief, and pain,
Which common sense escapes, yet who would change
The powers, thro' Nature and thro' Art that range,
To walk the bounded, dull, tho' safer plain
Of moderate intellect, where only reign
Some faint perception of the Sweet,—the Strange,
The Gay,—the Grand,—the Tender,—the Sublime,
And all the varied stores of Fancy's clime?
Destructive shall we deem yon noon-tide blaze,
If, transiently, the eye, o'erpower'd, resign
Visual distinctness?—Shall we rather praise
The moon's pale light?—With owlish choice incline
That common sense her lunar lamp should raise,
Than that the solar fires of Genius shine?

151

SONNET XXX.

That song again!—its sounds my bosom thrill,
Breathe of past years, to all their joys allied;
And, as the notes thro' my sooth'd spirits glide,
Dear recollection's choicest sweets distil,
Soft as the morn's calm dew on yonder hill,
When slants the sun upon its grassy side,
Tinging the brooks that many a mead divide
With lines of gilded light; and blue, and still,
The distant lake stands gleaming in the vale.
Sing, yet once more, that well-remember'd strain,
Which oft made vocal every passing gale
In days long fled, in Pleasure's golden reign,
The youth of changed Honora!—now it wears
Her air—her smile—spells of the vanish'd years!

152

SONNET XXXI. TO THE DEPARTING SPIRIT OF AN ALIENATED FRIEND.

O, ever dear! thy precious, vital powers
Sink rapidly!—the long and dreary night
Brings scarce an hope that morn's returning light
Shall dawn for thee!—In such terrific hours,
When yearning fondness eagerly devours
Each moment of protracted life, his flight
The rashly-chosen of thy heart has ta'en
Where dances, songs, and theatres invite.
Expiring Sweetness! with indignant pain
I see him in the scenes where laughing glide
Pleasure's light forms;—see his eyes gaily glow,
Regardless of thy life's fast ebbing tide;
I hear him, who should droop in silent woe,
Declaim on actors, and on taste decide!

153

SONNET XXXII. SUBJECT OF THE PRECEDING SONNET CONTINUED.

Behold him now his genuine colours wear,
That specious false-one, by whose cruel wiles
I lost thy amity; saw thy dear smiles
Eclips'd; those smiles, that used my heart to cheer,
Wak'd by thy grateful sense of many a year
When rose thy youth, by Friendship's pleasing toils
Cultured;—but Dying!—O! for ever fade
The angry fires.—Each thought, that might upbraid
Thy broken faith, which yet my soul deplores,
Now as eternally is past and gone
As are the interesting, the happy hours,
Days, years, we shared together. They are flown!
Yet long must I lament thy hapless doom,
Thy lavish'd life and early-hasten'd tomb.

154

SONNET XXXIII.

JUNE 1780.

Last night her form the hours of slumber bless'd
Whose eyes illumin'd all my youthful years.—
Spirit of dreams, at thy command appears
Each airy shape, that visiting our rest,
Dismays, perplexes, or delights the breast.
My pensive heart this kind indulgence cheers;
Bliss, in no waking moment now possess'd,
Bliss, ask'd of thee with memory's thrilling tears.
Nightly I cry,—how oft, alas! in vain,—
Give, by thy powers, that airy shapes controul,
Honora to my visions!—ah! ordain
Her beauteous lip may wear the smile that stole,
In years long fled, the sting from every pain!
Show her sweet face, ah show it to my soul!

155

SONNET XXXIV.

JUNE 1780.

When death, or adverse fortune's ruthless gale,
Tears our best hopes away, the wounded heart
Exhausted, leans on all that can impart
The sympathetic charm; its mutual wail
Sooths the sick soul. Ah! never can it fail
To balm our bleeding grief's severest smart;
Nor wholly vain feign'd Pity's solemn art,
Tho' we should penetrate her sable veil.
Concern, e'en known to be assum'd, our pains
Respecting, kinder welcome far acquires
Than cold neglect, or mirth that grief profanes.
Thus each faint glow-worm of the night conspires,
Gleaming along the moss'd and darken'd lanes,
To cheer the gloom with her unreal fires.

156

SONNET XXXV. SPRING.

APRIL 29TH, 1782.

In April's gilded morn when south winds blow,
And gently shake the hawthorn's silver crown,
Wafting its scent the forest-glade adown,
The dewy shelter of the bounding doe,
Then, under trees, soft tufts of primrose show
Their palely-yellowing flowers;—to the moist sun
Blue harebells peep, while cowslips stand unblown,
Plighted to riper May;—and lavish flow
The lark's loud carols in the wilds of air.
O! not to Nature's glad enthusiast cling
Avarice, and pride.—Thro' her now blooming sphere
Charm'd as he roves, his thoughts enraptur'd spring
To Him, who gives frail man's appointed time
These cheering hours of promise and of prime.

157

SONNET XXXVI. SUMMER.

JUNE 27TH, 1782.

Now on hills, rocks, and streams, and vales, and plains,
Full looks the shining day.—Our gardens wear
The gorgeous robes of the consummate year.
With laugh, and shout, and song, stout maids and swains
Heap high the fragrant hay, as thro' rough lanes
Rings the yet empty waggon.—See in air
The pendent cherries, red with tempting stains,
Gleam thro' their boughs.—Summer, thy bright career
Must slacken soon in Autumn's milder sway;
Then thy now heapt and jocund meads shall stand
Smooth,—vacant,—silent,—thro' th' exulting land
As wave thy rival's golden fields, and gay
Her reapers throng. She smiles, and binds the sheaves;
Then bends her parting step o'er fall'n and rustling leaves.

158

SONNET XXXVII. AUTUMN.

OCTOBER 27TH. 1782.

Thro' changing months a well-attemper'd mind
Welcomes their gentle or terrific pace.—
When o'er retreating Autumn's golden grace
Tempestuous Winter spreads in every wind
Naked asperity, our musings find
Grandeur increasing, as the glooms efface
Variety and glow.—Each solemn trace
Exalts the thoughts, from sensual joys refin'd.
Then blended in our rapt ideas rise
The vanish'd charms, that summer-suns reveal,
With all of desolation, that now lies
Dreary before us;—teach the soul to feel
Awe in the present, pleasure in the past,
And to see vernal morns in Hope's perspective cast.

159

SONNET XXXVIII. WINTER.

DECEMBER 1ST, 1782.

If he whose bosom with no transport swells
In vernal airs and hours commits the crime
Of sullenness to Nature, 'gainst the time,
And its great Ruler, he alike rebels
Who seriousness and pious dread repels,
And awless gazes on the faded clime,
Dim in the gloom, and pale in the hoar rime
That o'er the bleak and dreary prospect steals.—
Spring claims our tender, grateful, gay delight;
Winter our sympathy and sacred fear;
And sure the hearts that pay not pity's rite
O'er wide calamity; that careless hear
Creation's wail, neglect, amid her blight,
The solemn Lesson of the Ruin'd Year.

160

SONNET XXXIX. WINTER EVENING.

DECEMBER 7TH, 1782.

When mourn the dark winds o'er the lonely plain,
And from pale noon sinks, ere the fifth cold hour,
The transient light, imagination's power,
With knowledge, and with science in her train,
Not unpropitious Hyems' icy reign
Perceives; since in the deep and silent hour
High themes the rapt concent'ring thoughts explore,
Freed from external Pleasure's glittering chain.
Then most the understanding's culture pays
Luxuriant harvest, nor shall Folly bring
Her aids obtrusive.—Then, with ardent gaze,
The Ingenious to their rich resources spring,
While sullen Winter's dull imprisoning days
Hang on the vacant mind with flagging wing.

161

SONNET XL. DECEMBER MORNING.

DEC. 19TH, 1782.

I love to rise ere gleams the tardy light,
Winter's pale dawn;—and as warm fires illume,
And cheerful tapers shine around the room,
Thro' misty windows bend my musing sight
Where, round the dusky lawn, the mansions white,
With shutters clos'd, peer faintly thro' the gloom,
That slow recedes; while yon grey spires assume,
Rising from their dark pile, an added height
By indistinctness given.—Then to decree
The grateful thoughts to God, ere they unfold
To Friendship, or the Muse, or seek with glee
Wisdom's rich page:—O, hours! more worth than gold,
By whose blest use we lengthen life, and free
From drear decays of age, outlive the old!

This Sonnet was written in an apartment of the west front of the Bishop's Palace at Lichfield, inhabited by the Author from her thirteenth year. It looks upon the Cathedral-Area, a green lawn encircled by prebendal houses, which are white from being rough-cast.

162

SONNET XLI. INVITATION TO A FRIEND.

DEC. 21ST, 1782.

Since dark December shrouds the transient day,
And stormy winds are howling in their ire,
Why com'st not Thou, who always can'st inspire
The soul of cheerfulness, and best array
A sullen hour in smiles?—O haste to pay
The cordial visit sullen hours require!—
Around the circling walls a glowing fire
Shines;—but it vainly shines in this delay
To blend thy spirit's warm Promethean light.
Come then, at Science, and at Friendship's call,
Their vow'd disciple;—come, for they invite!
The social powers without thee languish all.
Come, that I may not hear the winds of Night,
Nor count the heavy eave-drops as they fall.

163

SONNET XLII.

DEC. 31ST, 1782.

Lo! the Year's final Day!—Nature performs
Its obsequies with darkness, wind and rain;
But man is jocund.—Hark! th' exultant strain
From towers and steeples drowns the wintry storms!
No village spire but to the cots and farms,
Right merrily, its scant and tuneless peal
Rings round!—Ah! joy ungrateful!—mirth insane!
Wherefore the senseless triumph, ye, who feel
This annual portion of brief life the while
Depart for ever?—Brought it no dear hours
Of health and night-rest?—none that saw the smile
On lips belov'd?—O! with as gentle powers
Will the next pass?—Ye pause!—Yet careless hear
Strike these last clocks, that knell th' expiring year!

164

SONNET XLIII.

TO MAY, IN THE YEAR 1783.

My memory, long accustom'd to receive
In deep-engraven lines, each varying trait
Past times and seasons wore, can find no date
Thro' many years, O! May, when thou hadst leave,
As now, of the great Sun, serene to weave
Thy fragrant chaplets; in poetic state
To call the jocund Hours on thee to wait,
Bringing each day, at morn, at noon, at eve,
His mild illuminations.—Nymph, no more
Is thine to mourn beneath the scanty shade
Of half-blown leaves, and shivering to deplore
Thy garlands immature, thy rites unpaid;
Meads dropt with gold again to thee belong,
Soft gales, luxuriant bowers, and wood land song.

Dropt with gold—Kingcups.

165

SONNET XLIV.

Rapt Contemplation, bring thy waking dreams
To this umbrageous vale at noon-tide hour,
While ull of thee seems every bending flower,
Whose petals tremble o'er the shadow'd streams
Give thou Honora's image, when her beams,
Youth, beauty, kindness, shone;—what time she wore
That smile, of gentle, yet resistless power
To sooth each painful passion's wild extremes.
Here shall no empty, vain intruder chase,
With idle converse, thy enchantment warm,
That brings, in all its interest, all its grace,
The dear, persuasive, visionary form.
Can real life a rival blessing boast,
When thou canst thus restore Honora early lost?

166

SONNET XLV.

From Possibility's dim chaos sprung,
High o'er its gloom the Aërostatic power
Arose!—Exulting nations hail'd the hour,
Magnific boast of Science!—Loud they sung
Her victory o'er the element, that hung,
Pressing to earth the beings, who now soar
Aerial heights;—but Wisdom bids explore
This vaunted skill;—if, tides of air among,
We know to steer our bark.—Here Science finds
Her buoyant hopes burst, like the bubble vain,
Type of this art;—guilty, if still she blinds
The sense of fear; persists thy flame to fan,
Sky-vaulting Pride, that to the aweless winds
Throws, for an idle show, the Life of Man!

This Sonnet was written when the balloon enthusiasm was at its height.

167

SONNET XLVI.

Dark as the silent stream beneath the night,
Thy funeral glides to Life's eternal home,
Child of its narrow house!—how late the bloom,
The facile smile, the soft eye's crystal light,
Each grace of youth's gay morn, that charms our sight,
Play'd o'er that form!—now sunk in death's cold gloom,
Insensate! ghastly!—for the yawning tomb,
Alas! fit inmate.—Thus we mourn the blight
Of virgin-beauty, and endowments rare
In their glad hours of promise.—O! when age
Drops, like the o'er-blown, faded rose, tho' dear
Its long known worth, no stormy sorrows rage;
But swell when we behold, unsoil'd by time.
Youth's broken lily perished in its prime.

168

SONNET XLVII. ON MR SARGENT'S DRAMATIC POEM, THE MINE.

With lyre Orphean, see a bard explore
The central caverns of the mornless night,
Till now ne'er echoing to Æonian rite
He comes!—and lo! upon the sparry floor,
Advance to welcome him, each sister power,
Petra, stern queen, Fossilia, cold and bright,
And call their gnomes, to marshal in his sight
The gelid incrust, and the veined ore,
And flashing gem.—Then, while his songs pourtray
The mystic virtues gold and gems acquire,
With every charm that mineral scenes display,
Th' imperial sisters praise the daring lyre,
And grateful hail its new and powerful lay,
That seats them high amid the Muses' choir.

Petra, and Fossilia, are personifications of the first and last division of the fossil kingdom. The author of this beautiful Poem supposes the gnomes to be spirits of the, mine performing the behests of Petra and Fossilia, as the sylphs, gnomes, salamanders, &c. appear as handmaids of the Nymph of Botany in that exquisite sport of imagination, the Botanic Garden.

169

SONNET XLVIII.

Now young-eyed Spring, on gentle breezes borne,
'Mid the deep woodlands, hills, and vales, and bowers,
Unfolds her leaves, her blossoms, and her flowers
Pouring their soft luxuriance on the morn.
O! how unlike the wither'd, wan, forlorn,
And limping Winter, that o'er russet moors,
Grey, ridgy fields, and ice-incrusted shores,
Strays!—and commands his rising winds to mourn,
Protracted life, thou art ordain'd to wear
A form like his; and, should thy gifts be mine,
I tremble lest a kindred influence drear
Steal on my mind;—but pious Hope benign,
The soul's bright day-spring, shall avert the fear,
And gild existence in her dim decline.

170

SONNET XLIX.

ON THE USE OF NEW AND OLD WORDS IN POETRY.

While with false pride, and narrow jealousy,
Numbers reject each new expression, won,
Perchance, from language richer than our own,
O! with glad welcome may the Poet see
Extension's golden vantage! the decree
Each way exclusive, scorn, and re-enthrone
The obsolete, if strength, or grace of tone
Or imagery await it, with a free,
And liberal daring!—For the critic train,
Whose eyes severe our verbal stores review,
Let the firm bard require that they explain
Their cause of censure; then in balance true
Weigh it; but smile at the objections vain
Of sickly spirits, hating for they do!

The particle for is used in the same sense with because, by Shakespear, and Beaumont and Fletcher.

“But she, and I, were creatures innocent,
“Lov'd for we did.

Bea. and Fle. Two Noble Kinsmen.

“—Nor must you think
“I will your serious and great business scant
“For she is with me.

—Othello.

“They're jealous for they're jealous.”

—Othello.

171

SONNET L.

In every breast affection fires, there dwells
A secret consciousness to what degree
They are themselves belov'd.—We hourly see
Th' involuntary proof, that either quells,
Or ought to quell false hopes,—or sets us free
From pain'd distrust;—but, O, the misery!
Weak self-delusion timidly repels
The lights obtrusive—shrinks from all that tells
Unwelcome truths, and vainly seeks repose
For startled fondness, in the opiate balm
Of kind profession, tho', perchance, it flows
To hush complaint—O! in belief's clear calm,
Or 'mid the lurid clouds of doubt, we find
Love rise the sun, or comet of the mind.

172

SONNET LI. TO SYLVIA,

ON HER APPROACHING NUPTIALS.

Hope comes to Youth, gliding thro' azure skies
With amaranth crown:—her full robe, snowy white,
Floats on the gale, and our exulting sight
Marks it afar.—From waning life she flies,
Wrapt in a mist, covering her starry eyes
With her fair hand.—But now, in floods of light,
She meets thee, Sylvia, and with glances, bright
As lucid streams, when Spring's clear mornings rise.
From Hymen's kindling torch, a yellow ray
The shining texture of her spotless vest
Gilds;—and the month that gives the early day
The scent odorous, and the carol blest,
Pride of the rising year, enamour'd May,
Paints its redundant folds with florets gay.

Milton, in the Par. Lost, gives the lengthened and harmonious accent to that word, rather than the short, and common one:

—“the bright consummate flower
“Spirit odorous breathes.”

173

SONNET LII.

Long has the pall of midnight quench'd the scene,
And wrapt the hush'd horizon.—All around,
In scatter'd huts, Labour, in sleep profound,
Lies stretch'd, and rosy Innocence serene
Slumbers;—but creeps, with pale and starting mien,
Benighted Superstition.—Fancy-found,
The late self-slaughter'd man, in earth yet green
And festering, burst from his incumbent mound,
Roams!—and the slave of terror thinks he hears
A mutter'd groan!—sees the sunk eye, that glares
As shoots the meteor.—But no more forlorn
He strays;—the spectre sinks into his tomb!
For now the jocund herald of the morn
Claps his bold wings, and sounds along the gloom.

“It fadeth at the crowing of the cock.” —Hamlet.

174

SONNET LIII. WRITTEN IN THE SPRING 1785 ON THE DEATH OF THE POET LAUREAT.

The knell of Whitehead tolls!—his cares are past,
The hapless tribute of his purchased lays,
His servile, his Egyptian tasks of praise!—
If not sublime his strains, Fame justly placed
Their power above their work.—Now, with wide gaze
Of much indignant wonder, she surveys
To the life-labouring oar assiduous haste
A glowing bard, by every Muse embraced.—
O, Warton! chosen Priest of Phœbus' choir!
Shall thy rapt song be venal? hymn the Throne,
Whether its edicts just applause inspire,
Or Patriot Virtue view them with a frown?
What needs for this the golden-stringed lyre,
The snowy tunic, and the sun-bright zone

Ensigns of Apollo's Priesthood.

175

SONNET LIV. A PERSIAN KING TO HIS SON.

[_]

FROM A PROSE TRANSLATION IN SIR WILLIAM JONES' ESSAY ON THE POETRY OF THE EASTERN NATIONS.

Guard thou, my son, the helpless and the poor,
Nor in the chains of thine own indolence
Slumber enervate, while the joys of sense
Engross thee, and thou say'st, “I ask no more.”—
Wise men the shepherd's slumber will deplore
When the rapacious wolf has leapt the fence,
And ranges thro' the fold.—My son, dispense
Those laws, that justice to the wrong'd restore.—
The common-weal should be the first pursuit
Of the crown'd warrior, for the royal brows
The people first enwreath'd.—They are the root,
The king the tree. Aloft he spreads his boughs
Glorious; but learn, impetuous youth, at length,
Trees from the root alone derive their strength.

176

SONNET LV. ON THE QUICK TRANSITION FROM WINTER TO SUMMER, IN THE YEAR 1785.

Loud blew the north thro' April's pallid days,
Nor grass the field, nor leaves the grove obtains,
Nor crystal sun-beams, nor the gilded rains,
That bless the hours of promise, gently raise
Warmth in the blood, without that fiery blaze,
Which makes it boil along the throbbing veins.—
Albion, displeased, her own loved Spring surveys
Passing, with volant step, o'er russet plains;
Sees her to Summer's fierce embraces speed,
Pale, and unrobed,—Faithless! thou well may'st hide
Close in his sultry breast thy recreant head,
That did'st, neglecting thy distinguish'd isle,
In Winter's icy arms so long abide,
While Britain vainly languish'd for thy smile!

177

SONNET LVI. TO A TIMID YOUNG LADY,

DISTRESSED BY THE ATTENTIONS OF AN AMIABLE AND ACCEPTED LOVER.

What bashful wildness in those crystal eyes,
Fair Zillia!—Ah! more dear to Love the gaze
That dwells upon its object, than the rays
Of that vague glance, quick, as in summer skies
The lightning's lambent flash, when neither rise
Thunder, nor storm.—I mark, while transport plays
Warm in thy lover's eye, what dread betrays
Thy throbbing heart:—yet why from his soft sighs
Fleet'st thou so swift away?—like the young hind,
That bending stands the fountain's brim beside.
When, with a sudden gust, the western wind
Rustles among the boughs that shade the tide:
See, from the stream, innoxious and benign,
Starting she bounds, with terror vain as thine!

“Vitas hinnuleo me similis Chloe.” Horace.

178

SONNET LVII. WRITTEN THE NIGHT PRECEDING THE FUNERAL OF MRS CHARLES BUCKERIDGE.

In the chill silence of the winter eve,
Thro' Lichfield's darken'd streets I bend my way
By that sad mansion, where Nerina's clay
Awaits the Morning Knell;—and awed perceive,
In the late bridal chamber, the clear ray
Of numerous lights; while o'er the ceiling stray
Shadows of those who frequent pass beneath
Round the pale Dead.—What sounds my senses grieve!
For now the busy hammer's stroke appals,
That, “in dread note of preparation,” falls,
Closing the sable lid!—With sighs I hear
These solemn warnings from the house of woes;
Pondering how late, for young Nerina, there,
Joyous, the love-illumin'd morn arose.

In Lichfield Cathedral the funeral rites are performed early in the morning.

179

SONNET LVIII.

Not the slow Hearse, where nod the sable plumes,
The Parian statue, bending o'er the Urn,
The dark robe floating, the dejection worn
On the dropt eye, and lip no smile illumes;
Not all this pomp of sorrow, that presumes
It pays Affection's debt, is due concern
To the for Ever Absent, tho' it mourn
Fashion's allotted time. If Time consumes,
While life is ours, the precious vestal-flame
Memory should hourly feed;—if, thro' each day,
She with whate'er we see, hear, think, or say,
Blend not the image of the vanish'd frame,
O! can the alien heart expect to prove,
In worlds of light and life, a re-united love!

180

SONNET LIX. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LADY MARIANNE CARNEGIE,

Passing her winters at Ethic House on the Coast of Scotland, with her Father, Lord Northesk, who retired thither after the death of his excellent Countess.

WRITTEN FEBRUARY 1787.

Lady, each soft effusion of thy mind,
Flowing thro' thy free pen, shows thee endued
With taste so just for all of wise, and good,
As bids me hope thy spirit does not find,
Young as thou art, with solitude combined
That wish of change, that irksome lassitude,
Which often, thro' unvaried days, obtrude
On youth's rash bosom, dangerously inclin'd
To pant for more than peace.—Rich volumes yield
Their soul-endowing wealth.—Beyond e'en these
Shall consciousness of filial duty gild
The gloomy hours, when Winter's turbid seas
Roar round the rocks; when the dark tempest lours,
And mourn the winds round Ethic's lonely towers.

181

SONNET LX.

Why view'st thou, Edwy, with disdainful mien,
The little Naiad of the Downton wave,
High 'mid the rocks, where her clear waters lave
The circling, gloomy basin?—In such scene,
Silent, sequester'd, few demand, I ween,
That last perfection Phidian chissels gave.
Dimly the soft and musing form is seen
In the hush'd shelly, shadowy, lone concave.—
As sleeps her pure, tho' darkling fountain there
I love to recollect her, stretch'd supine
Upon its mossy brink, with pendent hair,
As dripping o'er the flood.—Ah! well combine
Such gentle graces, modest, pensive, fair,
To aid the magic of her watry shrine.

The above Sonnet was addressed to a friend, who had fastidiously despised, because he did not think it exquisite sculpture, the statue of a water-nymph in Mr Knight's singular, and beautiful cold bath at Downton Castle near Ludlow. It rises amidst a rotunda, formed by rocks, and covered with shells and fossils, in the highest elevation of that mountainous and romantic scene.

182

SONNET LXI. TO MR HENRY CARY,

ON READING HIS SONNETS WRITTEN AT SIXTEEN.

Disciple of the bright Aonian Maid
In thy life's blossom, a resistless spell
Amid the wild wood, and irriguous dell,
O'er thymy hill, and thro' illumined glade,
Led thee, for her thy votive wreaths to braid,
Where flaunts the musk-rose, and the azure bell
Nods o'er loquacious brook, or silent well.—
Thus woo'd her inspirations, their rapt aid
Liberal she gave; nor only thro' thy strain
Breath'd their pure spirit, while her charms beguiled
The languid hours of sorrow, and of pain,
But when youth's tide ran high, and tempting smiled
Circean pleasure, rescuing did she stand,
Broke the enchantress' cup, and snapt her wand.

Then of Sutton Coldfield.

183

SONNET LXII.

Dim grows the vital flame in his dear breast
From whom my life I drew;—and thrice has Spring
Bloom'd; and fierce Winter thrice, on darken'd wing,
Howl'd o'er the gray, waste fields, since he possess'd
Or strength of frame, or intellect.—Now bring
Nor morn, nor eve, his cheerful steps, that press'd
Thy pavement, Lichfield, in the spirit bless'd
Of social gladness. They have failed, and cling
Feebly to the fix'd chair, no more to rise
Elastic!—Ah! my heart forebodes that soon
The Full of Days shall sleep;—nor Spring's soft sighs,
Nor Winter's blast awaken him!—Begun
The twilight!—Night is long!—but o'er his eyes
Life-weary slumbers weigh the pale lids down!

When this Sonnet was written, the subject of it had languished three years beneath repeated paralytic strokes, which had greatly enfeebled his limbs, and impaired his understanding. Contrary to all expectation he survived three more years, subject, through their progress, to the same frequent and dreadful attacks, though in their intervals he was apparntly free from pain or sickness.

184

SONNET LXIII. TO COLEBROOKE DALE.

Thy Genius, Colebrooke, faithless to his charge,
Amid thy woods and vales, thy rocks and streams,
Form'd for the train that haunt poetic dreams,
Naiads, and nymphs,—now hears the toiling barge
And the swart Cyclops' ever-clanging forge
Din in thy dells;—permits the dark-red gleams,
From umber'd fires on all thy hills, the beams,
Solar and pure, to shroud with columns large
Of black sulphureous smoke, that spread their veils
Like funeral crape upon the sylvan robe
Of thy romantic rocks, pollute thy gales,
And stain thy glassy floods;—while o'er the globe
To spread thy stores metallic, this rude yell
Drowns the wild woodland song, and breaks the poet's spell.

185

SONNET LXIV. TO MR HENRY CARY,

ON THE PUBLICATION OF HIS SONNETS.

Prais'd be the Poet, who the Sonnet's claim,
Severest of the orders that belong
Distinct and separate to the Delphic song,
Shall venerate, nor its appropriate name
Lawless assume. Peculiar is its frame,
From him derived, who shunn'd the city throng,
And warbled sweet thy rocks and streams among,
Lonely Valclusa!—and that heir of fame,
Our greater Milton, hath, by many a lay
Form'd on that arduous model, fully shown
That English verse may happily display
Those strict energic measures, which alone
Deserve the name of Sonnet, and convey
A grandeur, grace and spirit, all their own.

186

SONNET LXV. TO THE SAME.

Marcellus, since the ardours of my strain
To thy young eyes and kindling fancy, gleam
With somewhat of the vivid hues, that stream
From Poesy's bright orb, each envious stain
Shed by dull critics, venal, vex'd and vain,
Seems recompens'd at full;—and so would seem
Did not maturer sons of Phœbus deem
My verse Aonian.—Thou, in time, shalt gain,
Like them, amid the letter'd world, that sway,
Which makes encomium fame;—so thou adorn,
Extend, refine and dignify thy lay,
And indolence, and syren pleasure scorn;
Then, at high noon, thy Genius shall display
The splendours promised in its shining morn.

187

SONNET LXVI.

Nobly to scorn thy gilded veil to wear,
Soft Simulation!—wisely to abstain
From fostering Envy's asps;—to dash the bane
Far from our hearts, which Hate, with frown severe,
Extends for those who wrong us;—to revere
With soul, or grateful, or resign'd, the train
Of mercies, and of trials, is to gain
A quiet conscience, best of blessings here!—
Calm conscience is a land-encircled bay,
On whose smooth surface tempests never blow;
Which shall the reflex of our life display
Unstain'd by crime, tho' gloom'd with transient woe;
While the bright hopes of Heaven's eternal day
Upon the fair and silent waters glow.

188

SONNET LXVII.

ON DOCTOR JOHNSON'S UNJUST CRITICISMS IN HIS LIVES OF THE POETS.

Could aweful Johnson want poetic ear,
Fancy, or judgment?—no! his splendid strain,
In prose, or rhyme, confutes that plea.—The pain
Which writh'd o'er Garrick's fortunes, shows us clear
Whence all his spleen to Genius.—Ill to bear
A friend's renown, that to his own must reign,
Compared, a meteor's evanescent train,
To Jupiter's fix'd orb, proves that each sneer,
Subtle and fatal to poetic sense,
Did from insidious Envy meanly flow,
Illumed with dazzling hues of eloquence,
And sophist-wit, that labour to o'er-throw
Th' awards of Ages, and new laws dispense
That lift the Mean, and lay the Mighty low.

When Johnson's idolaters are hard pressed concerning his injustice in those fallacious though able pages;—when they are reminded that he there tells us the perusal of Milton's Paradise Lost is a task, and never a pleasure;—reminded also of his avowed contempt of that exquisite Poem, the Lycidas;— of his declaration that Dryden's absurd Ode on the death of Mrs Anne Killegrew, written in Cowley's worst manner, is the noblest Ode in this language;—of his disdain of Gray as a lyric poet; of the superior respect he pays to Yalden, Blackmore, and Pomfret;—When these things are urged, his adorers seek to acquit him of wilful misrepresentation by alledging that he wanted ear for lyric numbers, and taste for the higher graces of Poetry:—but it is impossible so to believe, when we recollect that even his prose abounds with poetic efflorescence, metaphoric conception, and harmonious cadence, which in the highest degree adorn it, without diminishing its strength. We must look for the source of his injustice in the envy of his temper. When Garrick was named a candidate for admission into the Literary Club, Dr Johnson told Mr Thrale he would black-ball him. “Who, Sir? Mr Garrick! Companion “of your youth! your acknowledged friend!”—“Why, “Sir, I love my little David better than any, or all of his flatterers “love him; but surely we ought to sit in a society like “ours, ‘unelbow'd by a Gamester, Pimp, or Player.” See Supplement to Dr Johnson's Letters, published by Mrs Piozzi.

189

SONNET LXVIII.

ON THE POSTHUMOUS FAME OF DOCTOR JOHNSON.

Well it becomes thee, Britain, to avow
Johnson's high claims!—vet boasting that his fires
Were of unclouded lustre, Truth retires
Blushing, and Justice knits her solemn brow;
The eyes of Gratitude withdraw the glow
His moral strain inspired.—Their zeal requires
That thou should'st better guard the sacred lyres,
Sources of thy bright fame, than to bestow
Perfection's wreath on him, whose ruthless hand,
Goaded by jealous rage, the laurels tore,
That Justice, Truth, and Gratitude demand
Should deck those lyres till time shall be no more.—
A radiant course did Johnson's glory run,
But large the spots that darken'd on its sun.

190

SONNET LXIX. TO A YOUNG LADY,

PURPOSING TO MARRY A MAN OF IMMORAL CHARACTER IN THE HOPE OF HIS REFORMATION.

Time, and thy charms, thou fanciest will redeem
Yon aweless libertine from rooted vice.
Misleading thought! has he not paid the price,
His taste for virtue?—Ah, the sensual stream
Has flow'd too long.—What charms can so entice,
What frequent guilt so pall, as not to shame
The rash belief, presumptuous and unwise,
That crimes habitual will forsake the frame?—
Thus, on the river's bank, in fabled lore,
The rustic stands; sees the stream swiftly go,
And thinks he soon shall find the gulph below
A channel dry, which he may safe pass o'er.—
Vain hope!—it flows—and flows—and yet will flow,
Volume decreaseless, to the Final Hour.

191

SONNET LXX.

TO A YOUNG LADY IN AFFLICTION, WHO FANCIED SHE SHOULD NEVER MORE BE HAPPY.

Yes, thou shalt smile again!—Time always heals
In youth, the wounds of sorrow.—O! survey
Yon now subsided deep, thro' night a prey
To warring winds, and to their furious peals
Surging tumultuous!—yet, as in dismay,
The settling billows tremble.—Morning steals
Grey on the rocks;—and soon, to pour the day
From the streak'd east, the radiant orb unveils
In all his pride of light.—Thus shall the glow
Of beauty, health, and hope, by soft degrees
Spread o'er thy breast; disperse these storms of woe;
Wake, with sweet pleasure's sense, the wish to please,
Till from those eyes the wonted lustres flow,
Bright as the sun on calm'd and crystal seas.

192

SONNET LXXI.

TO THE POPPY.

While Summer roses all their glory yield
To crown the votary of love and joy,
Misfortune's victim hails, with many a sigh,
Thee, scarlet Poppy of the pathless field,
Gaudy, yet wild and lone; no leaf to shield
Thy flaccid vest, that as the gale blows high,
Flaps, and alternate folds around thy head.—
So stands in the long grass a love-craz'd maid,
Smiling aghast; while stream to every wind
Her garish ribbons, smear'd with dust and rain;
But brain-sick visions cheat her tortured mind,
And bring false peace. Thus, lulling grief and pain,
Kind dreams oblivious from thy juice proceed,
Thou flimsy, shewy, melancholy Weed.

193

SONNET LXXII.

WRITTEN IN THE RAINY SUMMER OF 1789.

Ah, hapless June! circles yon lunar sphere
Yet the dim Halo? whose cold powers ordain
Long o'er these vales should sweep, in misty train,
The pale continuous showers, that sullying smear
Thy radiant lilies, towering on the plain;
Bend low, with rivel'd leaves of canker'd stain,
Thy drench'd and heavy rose.—Yet pledg'd and dear
Fair Hope still holds the promise of the year;
Suspends her anchor on the silver horn
Of the next wexing orb, tho', June, thy day,
Robb'd of its golden eve, and rosy morn,
And gloomy as the Winter's rigid sway,
Leads sunless, lingering, disappointing hours
Thro' the song-silent glades and dropping bowers.

194

SONNET LXXIII.

[_]

TRANSLATION.

He who a tender long-lov'd wife survives,
Sees himself sunder'd from the only mind
Whose hopes, and fears, and interests, were combin'd,
And blended with his own.—No more she lives!
No more, alas! her death-numb'd ear receives
His thoughts, that trace the past, or anxious wind
The future's darkling maze!—His wish refined,
The wish to please, exists no more, that gives
The will its energy, the nerves their tone!—
He feels the texture of his quiet torn,
And stopt the settled course that action drew;
Life stands suspended—motionless—till thrown
By outward causes, into channels new;—
But, in the dread suspense, how sinks the soul forlorn!

195

SONNET LXXIV.

In sultry noon when youthful Milton lay,
Supinely stretch'd beneath the poplar shade,
Lured by his form, a fair Italian maid
Steals from her loitering chariot, to survey
The slumbering charms, that all her soul betray.
Then, as coy fears th' admiring gaze upbraid,
Starts;—and these lines, with hurried pen pourtray'd,
Slides in his half-clos'd hand;—and speeds away.—
“Ye eyes, ye human stars!—if, thus conceal'd
“By sleep's soft veil, ye agitate my heart,
“Ah! what had been its conflict if reveal'd
“Your rays had shone!”—Bright nymph, thy strains impart
Hopes, that impel the graceful bard to rove,
Seeking thro' Tuscan vales his visionary love.

This romantic circumstance of our great Poet's juvenility was inserted, as a well known fact, in one of the General Evening Posts in the Spring 1789, and it was there supposed to have formed the first impulse of his Italian journey.

196

SONNET LXXV.

SUBJECT CONTINUED.

He found her not:—yet much the Poet found,
To swell Imagination's golden store,
On Arno's bank, and on that bloomy shore,
Warbling Parthenope; in the wide bound,
Where Rome's forlorn Campania stretches round
Her ruin'd towers and temples;—classic lore
Breathing sublimer spirit from the power
Of local consciousness.—Thrice happy wound,
Given by his sleeping graces, as the fair
“Hung over them enamour'd,” the desire
Thy fond result inspired, that wing'd him there,
Where breath'd each Roman and each Tuscan lyre,
Might haply fan the emulative flame,
That rose o'er Dante's song, and rival'd Maro's fame.

197

SONNET LXXVI. THE CRITICS OF DR JOHNSON'S SCHOOL.

Lo! modern critics emulously dare
Ape the great despot; throw in pompous tone
And massy words their true no-meaning down!
But while their envious eyes on Genius glare,
While axioms false assiduously they square
In arrogant antithesis, a frown
Lours on the brow of Justice, to disown
The kindred malice with its mimic air.
Spirit of Common Sense! must we endure
The incrustation hard without the gem?
Find in th' Anana's rind the wilding sour,
The oak's rough knots on every osier's stem?
The dark contortions of the Sybil bear,
Whose inspirations never meet our ear?

In jargon, like the following, copied from a Review, are works of Genius perpetually criticised in our public prints:— “Passion has not sufficient coolness to pause for metaphor, nor “has metaphor ardour enough to keep pace with passion.”— Nothing can be less true. Metaphoric strength of expression will burst even from vulgar and illiterate minds when they are agitated. It is a natural effort of roused sensibility in every gradation, from unlettered simplicity to the highest refinement. Passion has no occasion to pause for metaphors, they rush upon the mind which it has heated. Similies, it is true, are not natural to strong emotion. They are the result of spirits that are calm, and at leisure to compare.

198

SONNET LXXVII.

O! hast thou seen a vernal morning briht
Gem every bank and trembling leaf with dews,
Tinging the green fields with her amber hues,
Changing the leaden streams to lines of light?
Then seen dull clouds, that shed untimely night,
Roll envious on, and every ray suffuse,
Till the chill'd scenes their early beauty lose,
And faint, and colourless, no more invite
The glistening gaze of joy?—'Twas emblem just
Of my youth's sun, on which deep shadows fell,
Spread from the Pall of Friends; and Grief's loud gust
Resistless, oft would wasted tears compel:
Yet let me hope, that on my darken'd days
Science, and pious Trust, may shed pervading rays.

199

SONNET LXXVIII.

Sophia tempts me to her social walls,
That 'mid the vast Metropolis arise,
Where splendour dazzles, and each pleasure vies
In soft allurement; and each science calls
To philosophic domes, harmonious halls,
And storied galleries. With duteous sighs,
Filial and kind, and with averted eyes,
I meet the gay temptation, as it falls
From a seducing pen.—Here—here I stay,
Fix'd by Affection's power; nor entertain
One latent wish, that might persuade to stray
From my aged nurseling, in his life's dim wane;
But, like the needle, by the magnet's sway,
My constant trembling residence maintain.

“And storied windows richly dight.” Il Penseroso.

200

SONNET LXXIX.

While unsuspecting trust in all that wears
Virtue's bright semblance stimulates my heart
To find its dearest pleasures in the part
Taken in other's joys; yielding to theirs
Its own desires, each latent wish that bears
The selfish stamp, O! let me shun the art
Taught by smooth Flattery in her courtly mart,
Where Simulation's studied smile ensnares!
Scorn that exterior varnish for the mind,
Which, while it polishes the manners, veils
In showy clouds the soul.—E'en thus we find
Glass, o'er whose surface clear the pencil steals,
Grown less transparent, tho' with colours gay,
Sheds but the darken'd and ambiguous ray.

201

SONNET LXXX.

As lightens the brown hill to vivid green
When juvenescent April's showery sun
Looks on its side, with golden glance, at noon;
So on the gloom of life's now faded scene
Shines the dear image of those days serene,
From Memory's consecrated treasures won;
The days that rose, ere youth, and years were flown,
Soft as the morn of May;—and well I ween
If they had clouds, in Time's alembic clear
They vanish'd all, and their gay vision glows
In brightness unobscur'd; and now they wear
A more than pristine sunniness, which throws
Those mild reflected lights that soften care,
Loss of lov'd friends, and all the train of woes.

202

SONNET LXXXI.

ON A LOCK OF MISS SARAH SEWARD'S HAIR, WHO DIED IN HER TWENTIETH YEAR.

My Angel Sister, tho' thy lovely form
Perish'd in youth's gay morning, yet is mine
This precious ringlet!—still the soft hairs shine,
Still glow the nut-brown tints, all bright and warm
With sunny gleam!—Alas! each kindred charm
Vanish'd long since; deep in the silent shrine
Wither'd to shapeless dust!—and of their grace
Memory alone retains the faithful trace.—
Dear Lock, had thy sweet owner liv'd, ere now
Time on her brow had faded thee!—My care
Screen'd from the sun and dew thy golden glow;
And thus her early beauty dost thou wear,
Thou all of that fair frame my love could save
From the resistless ravage of the grave!

203

SONNET LXXXII.

From a riv'd tree, that stands beside the grave
Of the self-slaughter'd, to the misty moon
Calls the complaining owl in night's pale noon;
And from a hut, far on the hill to rave
Is heard the angry Ban-Dog. With loud wave
Yon rous'd and turbid river surges down,
Swoln with the mountain-rains, and dimly shown
Appals our sense.—Yet see! from yonder cave,
Her shelter in the recent, stormy showers,
With anxious brow, a fond expecting maid
Steals towards the flood!—Alas!—for now appears
Her lover's vacant boat!—the broken oars
Roll down the tide!—What images invade!
Aghast she stands, the statue of her fears!

204

SONNET LXXXIII. ON CATANIA AND SYRACUSE

SWALLOWED UP BY AN EARTHQUAKE.

[_]

FROM THE ITALIAN OF FILACAJA.

Here, from laborious Art, proud Towns, ye rose!
Here, in an instant, sunk!—nor aught remains
Of all ye were!—on the wide, lonely plains
Not e'en a stone, that might these words disclose,
“Here stood Catania;”—or whose surface shows
That this was Syracuse:—but louring reigns
A trackless Desolation.—Dim domains!
Pale, mournful strand! how oft, with anxious throes,
Seek I sad relics, which no spot supplies!—
A Silence—a fix'd Horror sears my soul.—
Inexplicable doom of human crimes,
What art thou?—Ye o'erwhelmed cities, rise!
That your terrific skeletons may scowl
Portentous warning to succeeding times!

205

SONNET LXXXIV.

While one sere leaf, that parting Autumn gilds,
Trembles upon the thin, and naked spray,
November, dragging on his sunless day,
Lours, cold and sullen, on the watry fields;
And Nature to the waste dominion yields,
Stript her last robes, with gold and purple gay.—
So droops my life, of your soft beams despoil'd,
Youth, Health, and Hope, that long exulting smil'd;
And the wild carols, and the bloomy hues
Of merry Spring-time, spruce on every plain
Her half-blown bushes, moist with sunny rain,
More pensive thoughts in my sunk heart infuse
Than Winter's grey, and desolate domain,
Faded, like my lost youth, that no bright Spring renews.

206

SONNET LXXXV. TO MARCH.

March, tho' the hours of promise with bright ray
May gild thy noons, yet, on wild pinion borne,
Loud winds more often rudely wake thy morn,
And harshly hymn thy early-closing day.
Still the chill'd earth wears, with her tresses shorn,
Her bleak, grey garb:—yet not for this we mourn,
Nor, as in Winter's more enduring sway,
With festal viands, and associates gay,
Arm 'gainst the skies;—nor shun the piercing gale;
But, with blue cheeks, and with disorder'd hair,
Meet its rough breath;—and peep for primrose pale,
Or lurking violet, under hedges bare;
And thro' long evenings, from our Lares claim
The thrift of stinted grate, and sullen flame.

207

SONNET LXXXVI. TO THE LAKE OF KILLARNEY.

Pride of Ierne's sea-encircled bound,
Rival of all Britannia's Naiads boast,
Magnificent Killarney!—from thy coast
Tho' mountains rise with noblest woods embrown'd;
Tho' ten-voiced echoes send the cannon's sound
In thunders bursting the vast rocks around,
Till startled wonder and delight exhaust
In countless repercussion—isles embost
Upon thy liquid glass; their bloomy veil
Sorbus and arbutus;—yet not for thee
So keenly wakes our local ecstacy,
As o'er the narrow, barren, silent dale,
Where deeply sleeps, rude circling rocks among,
The love-devoted fount enamour'd Petrarch sung.

This Sonnet was written on having read a deseription of the Killarney scenery immediately after that of the Vale of Vaucluse, uncultivated and comparatively desert as the latter has been through more than the present century.

208

SONNET LXXXVII. TO A YOUNG LADY,

ADDRESSED BY A GENTLEMAN, CELEBRATED FOR HIS POETICAL TALENTS.

Round Cleon's brow the Delphic laurels twine,
And lo! the laurel decks Amanda's breast!
Charm'd shall he mark its glossy branches shine
On that contrasting snow; shall see express'd
Love's better omens, in the green hues dress'd
Of this selected foliage.—Nymph, 'tis thine
The warning story on its leaves to find,
Proud Daphne's fate, imprison'd in its rind,
And with its umbrage veil'd; great PhŒbus' power
Scorning, and bent, with feet of wind, to foil
His swift pursuit, till on Thessalian shore
Shot into boughs, and rooted to the soil.—
Thus warn'd, fair maid, Apollo's ire to shun,
Soon may his spray's and Votary's lot be one.

209

SONNET LXXXVIII.
[_]

[The three following Sonnets are written in the character of Werter; the sentiments and images chiefly, but not entirely, taken from one of his letters.]

THE PROSPECT A FLOODED VALE.

Up this bleak hill, in wintry night's dread hour,
With mind congenial to the scene, I come!
To see my Valley in the lunar gloom,
To see it whelm'd.—Amid the cloudy lour
Gleamsthe cold moon;—and shows the ruthless power
Of yon swoln floods, that white with turbid foam
Roll o'er the fields;—and billowy as they roam,
Against the bushes beat!—A vale no more,
A troubled sea, toss'd by the furious wind!—
Alas! the wild and angry waves efface
Pathway, and hedge, and bank, and stile!—I find
But one wide waste of waters!—In controul
Thus dire, to tides of misery and disgrace
Love opes the flood-gates of my struggling soul.

210

SONNET LXXXIX. SUBJECT CONTINUED.

Yon late but gleaming moon, in hoary light
Shines out unveil'd, and on the cloud's dark fleece
Rests;—but her strengthen'd beams appear to increase
The wild disorder of this troubled night.
Redoubling echoes seem yet more to excite
The roaring winds and waters!—Ah! why cease
Resolves, that promis'd everlasting peace,
And drew my steps to this incumbent height?
I wish!—I shudder!—stretch my longing arms
O'er the steep cliff!—My swelling spirits brave
The leap, that quiets all these dire alarms,
And floats me tossing on yon stormy wave!
But Oh! what roots my feet?—what spells, what charms
The daring purpose of my soul enslave?

211

SONNET XC. SUBJECT CONTINUED.

My hour is not yet come!—these burning eyes
Have not yet look'd their last!—else, 'mid the roar
Of this wild Storm, what gloomy joy to pour
My freed, exhaling soul!—sublime to rise,
Rend the conflicting clouds, inflame the skies,
And lash the torrents!—Bending to explore
Our evening seat, my straining eye once more
Roves the wide wat'ry waste;—but nought descries
Save the pale flood, o'erwhelming as it strays.
Yet Oh! lest my remorseless fate decree
That all I love, with life's extinguished rays
Sink from my soul, to sooth this agony,
To balm that life, whose loss may forfeit thee,
Come dear Remembrance of Departed Day.

212

SONNET XCI.

On the fleet streams, the sun, that late arose,
In amber radiance plays;—the tall young grass
No foot hath bruis'd—clear morning, as I pass,
Breathes the pure gale, that on the blossom blows;
And, as with gold yon green hill's summit glows,
The lake inlays the vale with molten glass.—
Now is the year's soft youth;—yet me, alas!
Cheers not as it was wont;—impending woes
Weigh on my heart!—the joys, that once were mine,
Spring leads not back;—and those that yet remain
Fade while she blooms.—Each hour more lovely shine
Her crystal beams, and feed her floral train;
But ah with pale, and waning fires, decline
Those eyes, whose light my filial hopes sustain.

213

SONNET XCII.

Behold that tree in Autumn's dim decay,
Stript by the frequent, chill, and eddying wind;
Where yet some yellow, lonely leaves we find
Lingering and trembling on the naked spray,
Twenty, perchance, for millions whirl'd away!
Emblem, alas! too just, of human kind!
Vain Man expects longevity, design'd
For few indeed; and their protracted day
What is it worth that Wisdom does not scorn?
The blasts of Sickness, Care, and Grief appal,
That laid the friends in dust, whose natal morn
Rose near their own!—and solemn is the call;—
Yet, like those weak, deserted leaves forlorn,
Shivering they cling to life, and fear to fall

214

SONNET XCIII.

Yon soft star, peering o'er the sable cloud,
Sheds its green lustre thro' the darksome air.—
Haply in that mild planet's crystal sphere
Live the freed spirits, o'er whose timeless shroud
Swell'd my lone sighs, my tearful sorrows flow'd.
They, of these long regrets perhaps aware,
View them with pitying smiles.—O! then, if e'er
Your guardian cares may be on me bestow'd,
For the pure friendship of our youthful days,
Ere yet ye soar'd from earth, illume my heart,
That roves bewilder'd in Dejection's night,
And lead it back to peace!—as now ye dart,
From your pellucid mansion, the kind rays,
That thro' misleading darkness stream so bright.

The lustre of the brightest of the stars always appeared to me of a green hue; and they are so described by Ossian.

215

SONNET XCIV.

All is not right with him, who ill sustains
Retirement's silent hours.—Himself he flies,
Perchance from that insipid equipoise,
Which always with the hapless mind remains
That feels no native bias; never gains
One energy of will, that does not rise
From some external cause, to which he hies
From his own blank inanity.—When reigns,
With a strong cultur'd mind, this wretched hate
To commune with himself, from thought that tells
Of some lost joy, or dreaded stroke of fate
He struggles to escape;—or sense that dwells
On secret guilt towards God, or Man, with weight,
Thrice dire, the self-exiling flight impels.

216

SONNET XCV.

On the damp margin of the sea-beat shore
Lonely at eve to wander;—or reclined
Beneath a rock, what time the rising wind
Mourns o'er the waters, and, with solemn roar,
Vast billows into caverns surging pour,
And back recede alternate; while combin'd
Loud shriek the sea-fowls, harbingers assign'd,
Clamorous and fearful, of the stormy hour;
To listen with deep thought those awful sounds;
Gaze on the boiling, the tumultuous waste,
Or promontory rude, or craggy mounds
Staying the furious main, delight has cast
O'er my rapt spirit, and my thrilling heart,
Dear as the softer joys green vales impart.

217

SONNET XCVI.

The breathing freshness of the shining morn,
Whose beams glance yellow on the distant fields,
A sweet, unutterable pleasure yields
To my dejected sense, that turns with scorn
From the light joys of dissipation born.
Sacred Remembrance all my bosom shields
Against each glittering lance she gaily wields,
Warring with fond regrets, that silent mourn
The heart's dear comforts lost.—But, Nature, thou,
Thou art resistless still;—and yet I ween
Thy present balmy gales, and vernal blow,
To Memory owe the magic of their scene;
For with such fragrant breath, such orient rays,
Shone the soft mornings of my youthful days.

218

SONNET XCVII. TO A COFFIN-LID.

LICHFIELD, MARCH 1790.

Thou silent door of our eternal sleep,
Sickness, and pain, debility, and woes,
All the dire train of ills existence knows,
Thou shuttest out for ever!—Why then weep
This fix'd tranquillity,—so long!—so deep!
In a dear Father's clay-cold form?—where rose
No energy, enlivening Health bestows,
Thro' many a tedious year, that used to creep
In languid deprivation; while the flame
Of intellect, resplendent once confess'd,
Dark, and more dark, each passing day became.
Now that angelic lights the Soul invest,
Calm let me yield to thee a joyless frame,
Thou silent Door of Everlasting Rest.

219

SONNET XCVIII.

Since my griev'd mind some energy regains,
Industrious habits can, at times, repress
The weight of filial woe, the deep distress
Of life-long separation; yet its pains,
Oft do they throb along these fever'd veins.—
My rest has lost its balm, the fond caress
Wont the dear aged forehead to impress
At midnight, as he slept;—nor now obtains
My uprising the blest news, that could impart
Joy to the morning, when its dawn had brought
Some health to that weak frame, o'er whichmy heart
With fearful fondness yearn'd and anxious thought.—
Time, and the Hope that robs the mortal dart
Of its fell sting, shall cheer me—as they ought.

220

SONNET XCIX. ON THE VIOLENT THUNDER STORMS.

DECEMBER 1790.

Remorseless Winter! in thy iron reign
Comes the loud whirlwind, on thy pinion borne;
The long, long night,—the tardy, leaden morn;
The grey frost, riv'ling lane, and hill, and plain;
Chill silent snows, and heavy pattering rain.
These are thy known allies;—and life forlorn,
Yet patient, droops, nor breathes repinings vain;
But now, usurper, thou hast madly torn
From Summer's hand his stores of angry sway;
His rattling thunders with thy winds unite,
On thy pale snows those livid lightnings play,
That pour their deathful splendours o'er his night,
To poise the pleasures of his golden day,
Soft gales, blue skies, and long-protracted light.

221

SONNET C. WRITTEN DECEMBER 1790.

Lyre of the Sonnet, that full many a time
Amus'd my lassitude, and sooth'd my pains,
When graver cares forbade the lengthen'd strains,
To thy brief bound, and oft-returning chime
A long farewell!—the splendid forms of rhyme
When grief in lonely orphanism reigns,
Oppress the drooping soul.—Death's dark domains
Throw mournful shadows o'er the Æonian clime;
For in their silent bourne my filial bands
Lie all dissolv'd;—and swiftly-wasting pour
From my frail glass of life, health's sparkling sands.
Sleep then, my Lyre, thy tuneful tasks are o'er;
Sleep! for my heart bereav'd, and listless hands,
Wake with rapt touch thy glowing strings no more!