University of Virginia Library

SONNETS.

SONNET I. THE WORLD.

Intended as an Apology for not writing a Prixe-Poem, by a Lady at Bath-Easton.

Wide habitation of the Sons of Men,
Wherein the seeds of vice and virtue lie
Mix'd, like the undigested elements
Ere Chaos lost his kingdom; where blind Chance
With Passion holds divided anarchy;
O! who may rightly scan thee or describe!
Subject ill-suited to a Virgin's Muse,
That cannot praise, and is to blame untaught!
Wherefore from this unprofitable theme
She turns, leaving unsung its arguments;
Save that with careless hand her lute she strikes
Lightly; nor hoping that the myrtle wreath
Shall crown her unpremeditated lay.

SONNET II. FROM THE ITALIAN.

SONNET III. TO Mr. WARTON,

On reading his History of English Poetry.

'Tis not for Muse like mine in rude essay
To paint the beauties of thy classic page,
Which ay deserve far other patronage
Than the small meed sincere she fain would pay
Of verse, grave eulogy, or distich gay;
For that thou deign'st inform this sapient age
Whate'er was whilom told by tuneful sage,
Or harp'd in hall or bow'r on solemn day:
But more for that thy skill the Minstrel throng
Forbids in cold Oblivion's arms to lie;
Dear long-lost Masters of the British Song
They shall requite thee better far than I;
And, other climes and other shades among,
Weave Thee a laureate wreath that ne'er shall die.

SONNET IV. ON THE AUTHOR's BIRTH-DAY.

SONNET V. TO LAURA.

Deep shelter'd in thy native forest green,
Where o'er thy lovely head each peaceful day
And silent night glide undisturb'd away,
And every Shepherd hails thee Rural Queen:
Think'st thou; my Laura, of that youth unseen
Who now, illum'd by Fancy's sacred ray,
To thy bright airy form presents his lay,
Sinking the space that Absence thrusts between?—
Constant as fair I know thee, charming Maid!
Take then these Strains! and O, where'er reclin'd,
By daisied fountain or by quivering shade,
Read them as sports to cheat the hours design'd,
Till, to thy faithful arms again convey'd,
I share each rapture pure and joy refin'd.

SONNET VI. THE RETURN OF LAURA.

As when to one who long hath watch'd, the morn
Advancing slow forewarns th'approach of day,
(What time the young and flow'ry kirtled May
Decks the green hedge and dewy grass unshorn
With cowslips pale, and many a whitening thorn),
And now the sun comes forth with level ray
Gilding the high wood top and mountain grey,
And as he climbs, the meadows 'gins adorn:
The rivers glisten to the dancing beam,
Th'awaken'd birds begin their amorous strain,
And hill and vale with joy and fragrance teem;
Such is the sight of Thee; thy wish'd return
To eyes like mine that long have wak'd to mourn,
That long have watch'd for light and wept in vain.

SONNET VII. TO VALCLUSA.

What tho', Valclusa, the fond Bard be fled
That woo'd his Fair in thy sequester'd bowers,
Long lov'd her living, long bemoan'd her dead,
And hung her visionary shrine with flowers!
What tho' no more he teach thy shades to mourn,
The hapless chances that to Love belong;
As erst when drooping o'er her turf forlorn,
He charm'd wild Echo with his plaintive song!
Yet still, enamour'd of the tender tale,
Pale Passion haunts thy grove's romantic gloom,
Yet still soft music breathes in every gale,
Still undecay'd the Fairy Garlands bloom,
Still heavenly Incense fills each fragrant vale,
Still Petrarch's Genius weeps o'er Laura's tomb.

SONNET VIII. IMITATION FROM FAUSTINA MARATTI.

Too beauteous Rival, whose enticing charms
Once to my Heart's sole Darling seem'd so fair,
That oft he praises still thy ivory arms,
Thy ruby lips, blue eyes, and auburn hair;
Say, when he heard thy tongue's seducing strain,
Stood he e'er silent, or with scorn replied?
Or turn'd with alter'd brow of cold disdain
From thy soft smiles, as now from mine, aside?
Once, once too well I know he held thee dear;
And then, when captive to thy sovereign will—
But why that look abash'd, that starting tear,
Those conscious blushes, which my fears fulfil?—
Speak, answer, speak!—Nay, answer not; forbear;
If thou must answer, that he loves thee still.

SONNET IX. ON DOVER CLIFFS.

On these white cliffs that calm above the flood
Uplift their shadowing heads, and at their feet
Scarce hear the surge that has for ages beat,
Scarce hear the surge that has for ages beat,
Sure many a lonely wanderer has stood;
And while th'ascending murmur met his ear,
And o'er the distant billows the still eve
Sail'd slow, has thought of all his heart must leave
To-morrow, of the friends he lov'd most dear—
Of social scenes from which he wept to part:
But if, like me, he knew how fruitless all
The thoughts that would full fain the past recall,
Soon would he quell the risings of his heart,
And brave the wild winds and unhearing tide—
The World his Country and his God his Guide.

SONNET X. TO AN OAK Blown down by the Wind.

Thou who, unmov'd, hast heard the whirlwind chide
Full many a winter round thy craggy bed;
And, like an earth-born giant, hast outspread
Thy hundred arms and heaven's own bolts defied,
Now liest along thy native mountain's side
Uptorn;—yet deem not that I come to shed
The idle drops of pity o'er thy head,
Or basely to insult thy blasted pride:—
No—still 'tis thine, tho' fall'n, imperial Oak!
To teach this lesson to the wise and brave,
That 'tis much better, overthrown and broke
In Freedom's cause, to sink into the grave
Than, in submission to a tyrant's yoke,
Like the vile reed, to bow and be a slave.

SONNET XI. MORNING.

Rings she shrill peal of dawn gay Chanticleer,
Thrice warning that the day-star climbs on high
And pales his beam as Phœbus' car draws nigh,
Now, ere the lawns or distant cribs appear,
Or ere the crows from wattled sheep-cote veer
Their early flight, or wakeful herdsman's eye
Discerns the smoky hamlet, let me ply
My daily task, to guide the labouring steer,
Plant the low shrub, remove th'unsightly mound,
Or nurse the flower, or tend the humming swarms;
Thus ever with the Morn may I be found,
Far from the hunter-band's discordant yell:
So in my breast content and health shall dwell,
And conscious bliss, and love of Nature's charms!

SONNET XII. TO BOCCACCIO.

Not for thy Gothic trumpet's martial rage,
Not for thy Latian bays, nor that 'twas thine
The Tuscan's rugged period to refine,
Nor yet, Boccaccio, that thy faithful page
Reflects the genuine manners of thy age;
Nor that, enliven'd at thy sprightlier style,
Pale Sorrow's victims smooth the brow and smile;
For nought of work like this, immortal Sage,
Haste I to twine this garland round thy tomb:
But that I oft have heard Nastagio's fears
At his dread vision, oft have wept the doom
Of fair Ghismonda sunk in early years,
I crown thee with this chaplet's simple bloom;
The Bard sublime of Terror and of Tears.

SONNET XIII. INSANIENTIS DUM SAPIENTIÆ.

Too long, alas! thro' Life's tempestuous tide,
Heedless of Heav'n, my giddy course I steer'd,
Link'd with the scoffing crew, nor ought rever'd
Great Nature's God: such erring dreams belied
My fancy, swol'n with unsubstantial pride:
While, uglier far than have been feign'd or fear'd.
Ten thousand phantoms to my sight appear'd,
And drew me darkling far from Truth aside:
But vigorous now, with eagle-ken restor'd,
By nobler means aiming at nobler ends,
To the mild bosom of its saving Lord,
Elate with ardent hope, my soul ascends;
While o'er the dreadful gulph, yet unexplor'd,
Religion's golden sun its evening-beam extends.

SONNET XIV. TO AN INFANT.

Dear Babe, whose meaning by fond looks exprest,
Thy only little eloquence, might move
The sternest soul to tenderness and love,
While thus, nor taught by age to fawn, nor drest
In Treachery's mask, nor Falsehood's glittering vest,
Thou sweetly smilest: at the pleasing sight,
Wretch as I am, unwonted to delight,
A transient gleam of gladness cheers my breast:
Yet soon again bursts forth th'unbidden tear,
And inly bleeds my heart, while I divine
What chilling blasts may nip thy riper year,
What blackening storms may cloud thy life's decline;
What for myself I feel, for thee I fear:
Nay! God forbid my woes should e'er be thine!

SONNET XV. RETIREMENT.

SONNET XVI. ON A WET SUMMER.

All ye who, far from town, in rural hall,
Like me, were wont to dwell near pleasant field,
Enjoying all the sunny day did yield,
With me the change lament, in irksome thrall
By rains incessant held; for now no call
From early swain invites my hand to wield
The scythe; in parlour dim I sit conceal'd,
Or 'neath my window view the wistful train
Of dripping poultry, whom the vine's broad leaves
Shelter no more.—Mute is the mournful plain;
Silent the swallow sits beneath the thatch,
And vacant hind hangs pensive o'er his hatch,
Counting the frequent drop from reeded eaves.

SONNET XVII. On a Revolution in the Opinions and Conduct of a Friend, whose Notions were supposed to be a little too free; and who was also supposed to have an Amour with a Lady who sung elegantly.

Sweet Babe, regenerate of heavenly grace,
And wash'd in that baptismal font, from whence
Distil the tears of holy penitence,
That cleanse the soiled heart from spot and trace
Of lust-engender'd sin; long may thy face,
Shining thro' such celestial dew, dispense
Its saintly beams, and healing influence,
To cheer and lighten our benighted race!
But chiefly that fall'n damsel, held so dear,
Whilst the lewd sceptre of the flesh bore sway;
O! teach her eye, wanton no more, to throw
On Heav'n alone, or thee, a chaster ray;
Chang'd its moist lustre for the briny tear,
And her love-kindling songs for cries of woe.

SONNET XVIII. ON THE DEATH OF THOMAS WARTON.

Say, shall the Muse o'er the fall'n hero's bier
Th'eternal monument of glory raise,
Swell the loud pæan of harmonious praise,
And high Ambition's banner'd trophies rear,
While silent flows the tributary tear
Which to her favourite Son the sorrowing pays,
Unstrung her useless lyre and mute her lays?
But hark! a strain divine now strikes mine ear:
The sacred Bard his independent fame
Shall from his own immortal verse receive.
Soon dies the Warrior's and the Statesman's name
His aid if no recording Poet give:
But wreaths of endless bloom shall Warton claim,
While Wit, while Learning, and while Fancy live.