University of Virginia Library

POEMS BY THE LATE AMOS COTTLE.

SONNET I. TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

HARK! in the vale I hear thy evening song,
Sweet Nightingale! it soothes my pensive soul.
Dost thou from day's gay flutterers retire,
As I, from tumult of the busy world,
To pour thy sad note on the evening gale?
Night, and this still serene, full well accord
With feelings such as ours. It is a calm
Healthful and sweet to nature, when the soul
Plumes all her powers, and imps her drooping wing
For other climes. Yes, songstress of the shade!
We both alike are here, brief sojourners,
Waiting the season of our happier change.
Yet from the lone spray cheer the vale awhile
And, listening, I will learn content from thee.

SONNET II. TO MY BROTHER.

BESIDE some hawthorn tree I ween you sit,
Dear bard! upon your three-legged chair, or, now,
Wooing the muses in ecstatic fit
Beneath some spreading oak, while neighbouring cow,
Or coy foal, sporting by his mother's side,
With chanticleer, anon in plumage gay,
Or bees, that haunt the meadows' flow'ry pride,
Enrich by turns thy soft mellifluous lay.
Soft flow thy lays, O thrice illustrious Joe,
Soft as the mole that burrows near thy feet,
Soothing as Zephyr in the noontide glow
Of sultry dog-days, and as woodbine sweet;
But may no elfin sister faithless prove,
And ah! thy three-legg'd chair unwittingly remove.

SONNET III. INSCRIPTION FOR A CELL IN ST. VINCENT'S ROCKS, NEAR BRISTOL.

CELL of my youthful haunts! within thy cave
Sits awful Silence — fann'd by the soft breeze
That ever and anon from odorous trees
Steels grateful, as the gentle breath of love.
She marks the earliest energies of spring,
On dewy pinions, tending each lone spray
And wildly scatter'd flower; the jocund lay
She loves to hear, that bright-eyed fairies sing.
And when the stars o'er yonder summit shine,
That frowning beetles o'er old Avon's flood;
She, doubly blest, in contemplative mood,
Lists to the flittings of aye passing time—
Stay, mortal, stay. Nor let thy foot intrude:
Here Silence loves to dwell in hermit solitude.

SONNET IV. TO POVERTY.

LOW in a barren vale I see thee sit
Cowering, while Winter blows his shivering blast,
Over thy reedy fire — pale, comfortless!
Blest independence, with elastic foot,
Spurns thy low dwelling, whilst the sons of joy
Turn from thy clouded brow, or, with a scowl,
Contemptuous, mark thee. At thy elbow stand
Famine and wan disease! two meagre forms,
Thy only visitants, who, though repelled,
Officious tend thee — wretched eremite!
Around thy cell, ah! wherefore see I graved
The sacred names of genius? Spenser here
Found his last refuge! Otway! Butler, too!
And Scotia's last, not least, heroic bard!

SONNET V. LEIGH WOODS.

EDWIN! how sweet a solace might'st thou find,
When the fierce dog-star darts his scorching beam,
In contemplation's not unholy dream,
Beneath Leigh's antique wood to lie reclined!
There would the cheerful linnet wing its way,
To seek thy lone retreat, and pour on high
Unlabour'd strains of softest melody,
Gladdening with song the sultry hours of day:
There might'st thou breathe the balmy breath of thyme,
Or scatter'd wild flower, from yon sunny vale,
Wafted unceasing by each random gale,
While Vincent's rude majestic heights were thine:
Ah, no! methinks I hear thee fondly say
Not Tempé's self would please, were Rosalind away.

VI. ON THE MILTON GALLERY.

VII. ON THE VALE OF OLDLAND, GLOUCESTERSHIRE.

VIII. ON MY VENERABLE GRANDFATHER.