The Poetical Works of the Late Thomas Warton ... Fifth Edition, Corrected and Enlarged. To which are now added Inscriptionum Romanarum Delectus, and An Inaugural Speech As Camden Professor of History, never before published. Together with Memoirs of his Life and Writings; and Notes, Critical and Explanatory. By Richard Mant |
 | I, II. |
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 | SONNETS. |
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| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
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 | The Poetical Works of the Late Thomas Warton |  |
143
SONNETS.
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SONNET I. WRITTEN AT WINSLADE IN HAMPSHIRE.
(Written about the year 1750. Published in Dodsley's Collection 1775.)
Winslade, thy beech-capt hills, with waving grain
Mantled, thy chequer'd views of wood and lawn,
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'Gan the gray mist with orient purple stain,
Or Evening glimmer'd o'er the folded train:
Her fairest landskips whence my Muse has drawn,
Too free with servile courtly phrase to fawn,
Too weak to try the buskin's stately strain:
Yet now no more thy slopes of beech and corn,
Nor views invite, since He far distant strays,
With whom I trac'd their sweets at eve and morn,
From Albion far, to cull Hesperian bays;
In this alone they please, howe'er forlorn,
That still they can recal those happier days.
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SONNET II. ON BATHING.
(This and the following Sonnets were published in 1777.)
When late the trees were stript by winter pale,
Young Health, a dryad-maid in vesture green,
Or like the forest's silver-quiver'd queen,
On airy uplands met the piercing gale;
And, ere its earliest echo shook the vale,
Watching the hunter's joyous horn was seen.
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Summer has smote each daisy-dappled dale;
She to the cave retires, high-arch'd beneath
The fount that laves proud Isis' towery brim:
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While cooling drops distil from arches dim,
Binding her dewy locks with sedgy wreath,
She sits amid the quire of Naiads trim.
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SONNET III. WRITTEN IN A BLANK LEAF OF DUGDALE'S MONASTICON.
Deem not, devoid of elegance, the Sage,By Fancy's genuine feelings unbeguil'd,
Of painful pedantry the poring child;
Who turns, of these proud domes, th' historic page,
Now sunk by Time, and Henry's fiercer rage.
Think'st thou the warbling Muses never smil'd
On his lone hours? Ingenuous views engage
His thoughts, on themes, unclassic falsely stil'd,
Intent. While cloister'd Piety displays
Her mouldering roll, the piercing eye explores
New manners, and the pomp of elder days,
Whence culls the pensive bard his pictur'd stores.
Nor rough, nor barren, are the winding ways
Of hoar Antiquity, but strown with flowers.
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SONNET IV. WRITTEN AT STONEHENGE.
Thou noblest monument of Albion's isle!Whether by Merlin's aid from Scythia's shore,
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Huge frame of giant-hands, the mighty pile,
T'entomb his Britons slain by Hengist's guile:
Or Druid priests, sprinkled with human gore,
Taught mid thy massy maze their mystic lore:
Or Danish chiefs, enrich'd with savage spoil,
To Victory's idol vast, an unhewn shrine,
Rear'd the rude heap: or, in thy hallow'd round,
Repose the kings of Brutus' genuine line;
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Studious to trace thy wondrous origine,
We muse on many an ancient tale renown'd.
154
SONNET V. WRITTEN AFTER SEEING WILTON-HOUSE.
From Pembroke's princely dome, where mimic ArtDecks with a magic hand the dazzling bow'rs,
Its living hues where the warm pencil pours,
And breathing forms from the rude marble start,
How to life's humbler scene can I depart!
My breast all glowing from those gorgeous tow'rs,
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Vain the complaint: for Fancy can impart
(To Fate superior, and to Fortune's doom)
Whate'er adorns the stately-storied hall:
She, mid the dungeon's solitary gloom,
Can dress the Graces in their Attic pall:
Bid the green landskip's vernal beauty bloom;
And in bright trophies clothe the twilight wall.
156
SONNET VI. TO Mr. GRAY.
Not that her blooms are mark'd with beauty's hue,My rustic Muse her votive chaplet brings;
Unseen, unheard, O Gray, to thee she sings!—
While slowly-pacing thro' the churchyard dew,
At curfeu-time, beneath the dark-green yew,
Thy pensive genius strikes the moral strings;
Or borne sublime on Inspiration's wings,
Hears Cambria's bards devote the dreadful clue
Of Edward's race, with murthers foul defil'd;
Can aught my pipe to reach thine ear essay?
No, bard divine! For many a care beguil'd
By the sweet magic of thy soothing lay,
For many a raptur'd thought, and vision wild,
To thee this strain of gratitude I pay.
157
SONNET VII.
[While, summer-suns o'er the gay prospect play'd]
While, summer-suns o'er the gay prospect play'd,Through Surry's verdant scenes, where Epsom spreads
Mid intermingling elms her flowery meads,
And Hascombe's hill, in towering groves array'd,
Rear'd its romantic steep, with mind serene,
I journey'd blithe. Full pensive I return'd;
For now my breast with hopeless passion burn'd,
Wet with hoar mists appear'd the gaudy scene,
Which late in careless indolence I pass'd;
And Autumn all around those hues had cast
Where past delight my recent grief might trace.
Sad change, that Nature a congenial gloom
Should wear, when most, my cheerless mood to chase,
I wish'd her green attire, and wonted bloom!
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SONNET VIII. ON KING ARTHUR's ROUND TABLE, AT WINCHESTER.
Where Venta's Norman castle still uprearsIts rafter'd hall, that o'er the grassy foss,
And scatter'd flinty fragments clad in moss,
On yonder steep in naked state appears;
High-hung remains, the pride of warlike years,
Old Arthur's Board: on the capacious round
Some British pen has sketch'd the names renown'd,
In marks obscure, of his immortal peers.
Though join'd by magic skill, with many a rime,
The Druid frame, unhonour'd, falls a prey
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And fade the British characters away;
Yet Spenser's page, that chants in verse sublime
Those Chiefs, shall live, unconscious of decay.
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SONNET IX. TO THE RIVER LODON.
Ah! what a weary race my feet have run,Since first I trod thy banks with alders crown'd,
And thought my way was all thro' fairy ground,
Beneath thy azure sky, and golden sun:
Where first my Muse to lisp her notes begun!
While pensive Memory traces back the round,
Which fills the varied interval between;
Much pleasure, more of sorrow, marks the scene.
Sweet native stream! those skies and suns so pure
No more return, to cheer my evening road!
Yet still one joy remains, that not obscure,
Nor useless, all my vacant days have flow'd,
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Nor with the Muse's laurel unbestow'd.
| The Poetical Works of the Late Thomas Warton | |