University of Virginia Library

SONNETS.

WRITTEN ON THE AUTHOR'S BIRTH-DAY

With joy, how oft I hail'd my natal morn,
When sportive youth enjoy'd his fairy reign;
And long'd to mark each infant year's return,
Eager to launch into life's troublous main.
Ah! happy period, when with heart elate,
And partial eye the busy world I view'd;
Nor dreamt, while pleasure seem'd on me to wait,
My path with sorrow's night-shade would be strew'd!
Henceforth, farewell to pleasure's giddy crowd;
Ye day-dreams vain, delusive hopes, adieu;
By madd'ning passions fir'd, too long I've bow'd
A willing slave to vanity and you:
For while remembrance pauses on the past,
I tremble, lest this day should be my last.

TO WILLIAM COWPER, ESQ.

ON READING HIS POEM OF “THE TASK.”

First of the deathless few who strike the lyre,
To feast, with pure delight, the reas'ning mind,
Or strive the source of happiness to find,
Cowper, thy verse who reads must needs admire!
Tutor'd by virtue, ev'n in glowing youth,
With pitying eye thou didst the world survey;
Then, saint-like, strove from pleasure's thorny way
To draw mankind by many a moral truth.
While meaner Bards worship at folly's shrine,
And court ambition by each servile verse,
Or black oppression's foulest deeds rehearse,
Boldly disclaiming truth, in pompous line—
Thou with the exil'd victim seem'st to mourn,
And bid'st the woe-worn wand'rer heav'n wards turn.

TO MARIA OF THE COTTAGE.

Daughter of Genius! sweet it is to m
Whene'er I fly this vain tumultuous crowd,
(Where poorer slaves must bow to wretches proud)
Thy cot to seek; and hear thy converse free,
In praise of virtuous freedom justly loud;
Next argue for thy sex, oft basely bow'd,
By tyrant man to keenest misery.
Daughter of Truth! this heart-felt wish I send;
May sorrow ne'er with thorns bestrew thy way,
But health, and hope, and peace thy steps attend;
And long the Muses o'er their fav'rite bend;
Prompting the legend strong, or sprightly lay!
Weak flows my verse; yet will I proud commend
A learn'd instructress, and fair virtuous friend.

TO MARIA OF THE COTTAGE.

You ask, Maria, why I droop my head?
And why thus let dejection cloud my brow?
Alas! life's various prospects all are fled,
Which frolic fancy once before me spread,
And nought but misery awaits me now;
Too long a captive by false pleasure led,
And madd'ning mirth, th' unheeded minutes flew,
While projects vain were idly nourished.
Lost, too, are friends who vow'd eternal truth;
Yes, friendship's balm drives heavy cares away!
But little dreams poor unsuspecting youth,
Misfortune makes e'en friendship soon decay!
—O wonder not, Maria, if my breast
Now harbours sorrow, life-consuming guest!

TO MRS. HOWARD, OF CORBY CASTLE,

ON PRESENTING A VOLUME OF MANUSCRIPT POEMS.

If aught of nature in my humble strain,
Shall unexpected catch your list'ning ear,
Such the reward, I scorn the critic's sneer,
Nor greater prize on earth e'er seek to gain!
Tho' long compell'd o'er distant lands to roam,
In fancy, oft thro' Corby's Bow'rs I range;
And taste the sweets that time can ne'er estrange,
Where nature smiles around my native home.
Each day recalls the scenes of dear delights;
The banks, whose shrubs display a thousand dies;
The distant landscapes; and the wood-crown'd heights,
Where oaks majestic court the liquid skies:
Rocks, woods, and lawns, for ever seem t' inspire
The glow that fills my bosom with desire!

MARY'S ABSENCE.

The dazzling light so beauteous in her eye,
The tender bloom which plays on Mary's cheek,
The neck, that ev'n with mountain snows might vie,
The voice, most musical, in accents meek,
These snare the soul, these force love's painful sigh;
Methinks, to see her look, to hear her speak,
Would tempt a hermit from his cell to fly.
These wak'd each fond emotion in my heart,
But when I heard her pleading pity's cause,
I dearly lov'd; nor dreamt we soon would part:
Now many a water wide between us flows,
I view her grace, her features void of art,
In the fair flow'rs gay Spring around me throws;
For she is gone, and gone, alas! is my repose.

TO MRS. CHARLOTTE SMITH.

When infant flow'rs their fragrance breathe around,
And each poor flutt'rer wantons on the wing,
To fancy's ear how grateful is the sound
That hymns the welcome smiles of lovely Spring.
But ere wild Autumn strips the hanging bow'r,
Some nestless, widow'd bird, is heard repeat
Her song of sadness, oft at eve's pale hour,
Telling to pathless woods of man's deceit.
Such, sorrow's syren, dwell on my rapt ear,
Thy plaintive notes that speak of pleasures past;
Of joys long fled, and friends no longer dear,
How each sad day's embitter'd by the last.
For thee, tho' sympathy's soft tear may start,
Alas! not pity's balm can heal thy broken heart!

TO EVENING.

Hail, sober Eve! to meditation dear;
Pure the delight, these well-known scenes to rove;
The joys this placid bosom now can prove,
Not yon proud city's wealth from me could tear:
The warbler's last note twitters thro' the grove,
And Caldew's murmurs gently strike the ear.
O, were my Mary, virtuous fair but here,
Now smiling April woos the month of love!
Then rapt in pleasure, we would fondly stray;
Nature, chaste love, by turns should be our theme;
And oft as Luna lent a silv'ry ray,
On Mary's charms to gaze my soul away,
Methinks were Heav'n, compar'd with Poet's dream:
Then grant me, fate, a while this luxury supreme!

ADDRESSED TO THE INFANT SON OF GAELUS,

THE BARD OF DUNOVER.

Sweet Bud! thy full blue eye, health-blooming cheek,
And dimpling smile, how cherub-like to see!
Gazing on that wild flow'r, thou fain would'st speak,
But dream'st not, Boy, how it resembleth thee.
Alike, you're nurtur'd in seclusion's shade;
Ev'n as frail man, its reign is quickly o'er;
Another hour may see its beauties fade,
It blooms its Summer, man enjoys no more.
From many a nipping blast, that tender flow'r
Ere long, must turn its drooping head aside;
So thou, perchance, must fall by ruthless pow'r,
Or live to bear the bitter taunts of pride.
Long may'st thou tread thy father's steps, sweet Boy!
And crown thy parent's closing years with joy!

TO THE RIVER EDEN.

Sweet Stream! when on thy flow'ry banks I stray,
Or trace the wild-wood, mead, or fertile vale;
And hear the songsters mourn departing day,
Or taste at morn the health-bestowing gale,
Remembrance paints the change, in every scene,
That now delights not, but calls forth a tear:
From friends, still priz'd, an exile sad I've been—
Life's joys are fled, and much have I to fear.
Sweet Stream! in fancy oft on thee I gaz'd,
When wand'ring with the Muse, in Erin's Isle;
And hope, perchance, in vain my spirits rais'd,
For hope, alas! oft whispers to beguile.
Now, sunk in want, on these lov'd banks I mourn,
And think of pleasures that can ne'er return!