University of Virginia Library

SONNETS.

SONNET the FIRST. To Laura. Written 1782.

Survey, my Laura, yonder Rose,
Its central Folds so sickly-pale;
While round its outward Leaves disclose
A lively Crimson to the Gale!
Yet as the secret Canker-Worm
Preys inly on its fainting Heart;
From the cold Floweret's fallen Form
Shall all that Glow of Color part!
Ah! on thy Lover turn thine Eyes—
The blooming Cheek may Laura see!
Yet know this pining Bosom dies—
And read the Rose's Fate in me!

SONNET the SECOND. On being prevented, by a sudden Shower, from meeting Laura. Written 1782.

SONNET the THIRD. To his Wife. Written 1784.

For thee, whose Love I value more than Life,
Whose Charms the Balm of Heart-felt Bliss inspire—
For thee I reassume my humble Lyre,
Here—in this Shade, far distant from the Strife
Of Scenes, where Fashion's pamper'd Votaries, rife
In Dissipation's Revel, quench thy Fire
O Muse! and blast the hallow'd Name of Wife
'Mid the dark Orgies of impure Desire—
For thee, tho' ne'er my unambitious Strain
May soothe the unfeeling World, I yet awhile
Tune the rude Shell! and haply, not in vain,
If (sweet Reward of every anxious Toil)
My simple Song have still the Power to gain
From Laura, but a fond approving Smile!

SONNET the FOURTH. To the same. Written 1784.

Amid this Scene of varied Beauty plac'd,
Where Nature's wild Simplicity, refin'd
To Prospects that might charm ev'n Mason's Mind,
Veils the fair Art, which lives in Courtenay's Taste;
Let us, my Laura, no vain Wishes waste;
But to the humbler Lot of Life resign'd
Be ours, when Evening's pensive Shadows haste
O'er the dark Trees and paler Lawn, to bind
Contentment's modest Wreath around the Brows
Of wedded Love, that sighing, oft renews
The Memory of its fondly-storied Vows;
Or smiling on the Day o'erpast, reviews
Each Joy the Wife—the Mother can impart,
To rivet, in Esteem, the Husband's Heart!

SONNET the FIFTH. Written at Mamhead, beneath an Evergreen Oak—May, 1785.

Here, Laura, since our wearied Feet have stray'd
From the proud Obelisk that fronts the Scene
Of many a tufted Hill, whose bolder Green
The sweet Perspective blends in mellow Shade;
While, sparkling thro' the stately Fir-trees, play'd
The burnish'd Hamlets of the Vales between,
And while the misty Bosom of the Glade
Seem'd opening to the azure Sea serene—
Here, Laura, let us rest our roving Eyes,
And near this ever-verdant Oak repose;
For lo, unharmoniz'd yon' Prospect lies,
And dim-discovered Views the Landscape close;
Yet clearer Beauties on the Lawn arise,
And, in full Pride, the shadowy Foliage flows!

SONNET the SIXTH. Written at the Belvidere—Powderham, May, 1785.

As Morn's grey Mist, with Skirts of Rainbow Dyes,
Rolls off, yon' opening River points my Sight
(Its Wave amid the Hills one Line of Light)
To where the antique Cathedral Turrets rise!
And there, the rich Varieties surprize
Of Landscape, stretching wide round Halldown's Height
That seems, in scenic Pomp, to reach the Skies,
Each Object, thro' contrasted Shadow, bright!
And here, beyond these dark'ning Firs, that close
Where slopes the castled Park's smooth Turf away,
The dancing Billow to the Sun-beam glows;
Whilst Harmony, her Magic to display,
Soft o'er the blending Whole her Coloring throws,
Yet leaves the threefold Scene distinct as Day!

SONNET the SEVENTH.

[O Circle, whether erst the Lightning's Lance]

O Circle, whether erst the Lightning's Lance
With its keen Azure shot thy wavy Way;
Or—such the Tales of Village-Maidens say—
The merry Fayes (what Time their Troops advance
To thread the fleeting Mazes of the Dance,
While bends dim Iris in the Lunar Ray)
Form'd, as they tripp'd with many a twinkling Glance,
Thy Ring, to speak their Revels to the Day;
Still fancying, lovely Circle, that I trace
Amid the Features of thy fading Dyes,
The little Footsteps of the Fairy Race—
Still, 'round the springing Verdure, shall arise
In soft Relief, thy gently-curving Grace—
Too trivial but for fond poetic Eyes!

SONNET the EIGHTH.

[How sweet—what Time the quick-rekindling Day]

How sweet—what Time the quick-rekindling Day
His orient Colors on my Dove-Cot streams,—
Whose Gilding blushes in the vivid Ray,
And o'er my Window flings reflected Beams;
How sweet to listen to thy cooing Note,
While slumbers softly leave the unsealed Eye,
And on my Pillow lights the placid Thought
To bid the hovering Dream of Morning fly!
Yes, gentle Dove! may still thy plaintive Tone
Be the first rural Sound to meet my Ear!
And still this Breast such simple Pleasures own
That, as a Lesson, I may love to hear—
And picture, with no Gall to give Offence,
Wafted on every Note, thy Innocence!

SONNET the NINTH.

[Tho' the group'd Trees that boast a wilder Grace]

Tho' the group'd Trees that boast a wilder Grace,
Steal from the Painter's Art their varied Site,
And their rich Mass of Shadow and of Light,
Where Nature's seeming Negligence we trace;
Yet, ye long Avenues, of awful Height
And mystic Air,—shall Fancy dare efface
The hoary Grandeur of your Gothic Race?—
While spreading a Cathedral Gloom, unite
Your Pillars, in immeasurable Shade,
With the dim Arch, that waving to the Beam
Of sportive Day, for Ages, hath portray'd
The restless Image of a billowy Stream
Shot on the “chequer'd Earth,” whose Walks below
Dance to the cheated Eye, with undulating Flow!

SONNET the TENTH.

[View'd thro' this beauteous Vista, where the Bloom]

View'd thro' this beauteous Vista, where the Bloom
Of flowering Ash disparted to the Day,
Bade from the Cloud the Sun's emerging Ray
Some Moments past, my root-wove Seat illume,
And let the brighten'd Landscape thro' the Gloom,—
How many a pleasing Object pass'd away!
The dim Sail, while the Branches scarce gave Room
On the calm Wave its Glimmering to survey;
And, where fleet Shadows floated o'er the Lawn,
The scatter'd Sheep that cross'd my charmed Eye;
And near that Hill, its sidelong Mists withdrawn,
The Hawk that pounc'd to Earth—then hover'd high;
And yet more near, the little playful Fawn
Amid those silver Alders, frisking by!

SONNET the ELEVENTH.

[Tho' now pale Eve, with many a crimson Streak]

Tho' now pale Eve, with many a crimson Streak
Soft-fading, tips the Lime-invested Hill;
And tho' blue Steams emerging from the Lake
Roll curling on, and hover o'er the Rill;
The Smoke, that slow evolves its pillar'd Form
From yonder Straw-roof'd Cottage, sweetly throws
O'er my hush'd Bosom a superior Charm,
And seems to breathe a cherub-like Repose!
With its grey Column to yon' sapphire Cloud
Stealing in Stillness, the calm Mind ascends—
The unruffled Line, tho' lost amid the Shroud
Of Heaven, in Fancy rising, never ends!
Thus ever may my tranquil Spirit rise
Free from the Gust of Passion—to the Skies!

SONNET the TWELFTH.

[Say, favorite Shades, beneath whose laurel Vest]

Say, favorite Shades, beneath whose laurel Vest
The wild Rose blushes, and pale Woodbines flaunt—
Say, why no longer vocal, tho' the Haunt
Erewhile, of many a little warbling Guest;
Where musing oft, my charmed Ear was wont
(As peep'd the callow Finches from their Nest)
To listen to the Parent's Song, and rest
On each sweet Trill, and bid vain Care avaunt—
Ah! whilst no more the gold-ting'd Artist weaves
His mossy Fabric with assiduous Bill;
Tho' round the rich Luxuriance of the Leaves
And Flowers, the Breeze with lavish Odors fill—
Ah, for such artless Music, Fancy heaves
Full many a Sigh, amidst a Pause so still!

SONNET the THIRTEENTH.

[Go, Limner,—if with Autumn's varied Realm]

Go, Limner,—if with Autumn's varied Realm
The mimic Canvas e'er presum'd to vie—
Go, mark the Leaves of that Time-hollow'd Elm
Which steal thro' many a Teint, to fade and die.
Say, as the wildest of the sylvan Scene,
That Elm collecting each autumnal Hue,
Waves the pale Vesture of a faded Green
Shot with Heaven's Lightning, to the bleak East View;
Mild o'er its brighter Leaves while Zephyrs blow;
To the drear North while browner Dyes unfold;
And softly sprinkled 'mid the Boughs below
The shadowy Purple mellows into Gold—
Say, has thy happiest Pencil e'er pourtray'd
Such mingled Colors, so reliev'd by Shade?

SONNET the FOURTEENTH.

[See the light Breeze the quivering Aspin stirs]

See the light Breeze the quivering Aspin stirs,
Whose snowy Bark and yellow Foliage throw
Their mingled Glimmering thro' the russet Row
Of stripling Oaks, and Green-invested Firs!
Yet Fancy, with delighted Voice avers,
That to the Muse's Eye new Beauties flow;
For, as the Charms of melting Color glow,
The sweet Delusion of the Scene is hers!
And see that Cloud empurpled sails away,
And on its soft and fleecy Fragments steal
Faint lilac Tints, while now the westering Day
Scarce flings, amid this variegated Vale,
Thro' yon' cleft Rock, a twilight-tinctur'd Ray
To meet the feebler Glance of Hesper pale!

SONNET the SEVENTEENTH. To Mr. Pratt, on reading his “Landscapes in Verse.” Written September, 1785.

Whilst with luxuriant Pride the “Landscape” flows
That speaks the Efforts of an Artist's Hand,—
And (tho' unfinish'd Groupes obscurely stand)
In rich warm Tints the new Creation glows—
At Orient Morn, or Evening's mellow Close
A sweet Elysium, or a fairy Land;—
Whilst thro' the Still-Life Scene Cleone throws
The Heart's enchanting Int'rest, 'mid the Band
Of Innocence and Youth and sighing Love
And rustic Joy;—shall not my ruder Lay
(Calm o'er my Bosom if Complacence move)
To its inspiring Source fond Homage pay?
And, tho' unblest by kindred Genius, prove
That kindred Feeling sheds as kind a Ray?

SONNET the EIGHTEENTH. To the Reverend Mr. Whitaker, Author of the History of Manchester, On his expressing his Approbation of the “Art of Eloquence.” Written November, 1785.

Thy Volumes, opening to my curious Gaze
Their num'rous Pages deepen'd with the Shade
Of antique Wisdom's mystic Lore, I read,
While all my Frame the Powers of Wonder seize!
Yet, rapt in high Delight, I see the Rays
Of luminous Description oft pervade
The historic Gloom, when rushes to thy Aid
Energic Fancy rob'd in solar Blaze—
—How then (my Bosom yet misgiving sighs)
How can the Historian, whose sublimer Views
Far—far above my loftiest Efforts rise,
The Precepts of Didactic Song peruse?—
And with the Candor of approving Eyes
Light to fair Honors the sequester'd Muse?

SONNET the NINETEENTH. Presented to Major Drewe, with a Translation of the Military Poems of Tyrtæus.—January 26, 1786.

Forgive the Muse, nor deem her honest Line
A Strain, that might betray the Flatterer's Art
Obstrusive; if assiduous to impart
The Applause which Truth devotes on Merit's Shrine.
She marks the Feeling and the Taste that shine
Fair in thy cultur'd Mind and liberal Heart;
And hails the Lustre of a Scipio thine:
While thro' thy brilliant Page new Beauties dart,
Mix'd with the noble Fervor of a Soul
Where bright the Flame of conscious Honor burns!
And such a Spirit as indignant spurns
Each crouching Slave; and blots from Valor's Roll
The Homage cold mechanic Duty pays
Too regular for Blame—too dull for Praise!

SONNET the TWENTIETH. To the AUTHOR, on seeing his Plan for a History of Devonshire, 1790.

O'er barren Ground, my Friend, thou takest thy Way,
Where scarcely blows a solitary Flower;
Not in these Haunts obscure the Muses stray,
Nor here hath Fancy raised her Myrtle Bower.
Yet should Encouragement with gentle Voice
Bid thee amid the desart Rocks proceed,
Should liberal Candour sanctify thy Choice,
And mark each Step, her Smile the promised Meed,
Thou wilt not shrink; for Genius early taught
To stoop beneath chaste Reason's Sway austere,
The undissipated Soul with Learning fraught,
Can change their Subject; firmly persevere;
And scorning Obstacles a Victory gain
Where labouring Dulness still would plod in vain.