University of Virginia Library

Sonnets.

SONNET I. TO J. C. CURWEN, ESQ. M. P.

Not the misnomer'd hero's praise I sing,
Who basely triumphs when he thins mankind;
Nor his who, to a people's interest blind,
The hard-earn'd mite from Industry do wring;—
Curwen, whose deeds a loftier verse doth claim!
Curwen her champion Cumbria hails with pride,
And bids her son resound his deathless fame!
To him belongs the honest patriot's name,
Who strives to stem Corruption's swelling tide,
And “feels resentment for his country's shame.”
Thee Independence proudly calls her own,
Who with yon recreant crew dares to contend,
Regardless or of place or placemen's frown—
Go on, great patriot, proving thou art Britain's friend!

SONNET II. TO THE LARK.

How sweet in May to trace the flow'ry lawn,
When full-blown blossoms deck the spangl'd thorn,
When, soaring from thy nest at early dawn,
Thy sprightly matin hails the blushing morn!
To hear thee welcome forth the new-born day
I love to range the dewy meads among.
How can the sluggard doze his time away,
Unheedful of thy early dulcet song!
Say, whither dost thou wing thy feeble flight,
When hoary Winter robes the fields in snow?
Poor bird!—yet are thy little cares but light
Compar'd with his by Poverty kept low;
For, ah! no change of season cheers the sight,
When weary life seems but a vale of woe.

SONNET III. TO AN AGED PARENT, ON SEEING HIM SHED TEARS.

Fond Parent, whom on earth I love most dear,
Why steals that sigh of sadness from thy breast?
I too do grieve to see thee sore oppress'd,
Whilst down thy care-worn cheek steals many a tear!
Thou weep'st, my father!—the sad cause I guess:
Long hast thou journey'd o'er life's mazy wild,
A sorrowing traveller, by false Hope beguil'd,
And few there be who pity thy distrees;
Nor Plenty on thy cot hath ever smil'd.
Robb'd of the blissful partner of each hour,
All thy self-promis'd joys, alas! are fled;
On thee life's wintry storms begin to low'r,
And thou dost bend. So fades the summer flow'r
At winter's keen approach, and droops its feeble head.

SONNET IV. WRITTEN IN WINTER.

Chill blows the raging blast across the plain,
And sickly Phœbus scarce a ray sends forth;
Keen Winter now steals from the angry north,
And from the meadow drives the shepherd swain,
Who, tempest-beaten, in his snow-clad cot,
Listens with horror to the howling wind;
Yet calm Contentment cheers his humble lot—
Contentment known but to the virtuous mind.
Tho' now no flow'rets deck yon brambl'd glade,
Where sweet the blackbird sung his evening lay;
Tho' leafless now the oak that form'd a shade
To rustic lovers at the close of day;
Yet Winter's angry howl and dark'ning gloom
Sad Sorrow soothes more than gay Summer's bloom.

SONNET V. TO A ROSE IN ELIZA'S BOSOM.

Thou sweetest flow'r that decks the enamell'd bed,
Say, little rival, by my love confess'd,
Why dost thou hide thy sweets and droop thy head,
Why fade so near Eliza's snowy breast?
When May return'd with all her sportive train,
I saw thee budding in thy fragrant seat—
O that 'twere mine the lily hand to gain
That gently pluck'd thee from thy lone retreat!
Hail, blushing Rose! an emblem of my fair,
In thee Eliza's sweetness let me trace;
Thy bloom the beauty that adorns her face,
Thy fragrant smell her breath that scents the air:
Sweet flow'r! thy beauties bloom but for a day,
Just like her charms, that ere life's eve must fade away!

SONNET VI. TO A YOUNG LADY, WITH SOME SONGS IN MANUSCRIPT.

For thee I cull no fair poetic flow'rs,
By Genius borrow'd from th'inspiring Muse;
Tho' oft her votary at the evening hours,
As pensive wand'ring near her peaceful bow'rs,
Yet she, coy nymph, her aid did still refuse.
Her smile no longer courting, thus I said—
‘The world will tell in vain I waste my time
‘Weaving in lowly cot my humble rhyme:
‘Yes!—I will straight pursue some kinder maid,
‘Nor envy him who soars in bold sublime.’
Then Fancy thy fair form did quick present:
To thee I send my artless songs of love;
Nor will I think one hour hath been misspent,
Should thou, sweet maid, one artless song approve.

SONNET VII. EVENING.

Mild Evening's floating breeze perfumes the air,
Whilst blushing Phœbus hastens down the west;
The twitt'ring swallow seeks her peaceful nest,
And home the rustic turns his bleating care.
Now from the drooping violet in the glade
The zephyrs sweet their balmy course pursue;
To distant sloping hills embrown'd in shade
The parting sun now bids a short adieu;
The shepherd's pipe proclaims the sportive dance,
And calls the younker from his daily toil;
Upon the green the village swains advance,
In harmless mirth the moments to beguile.
Hail, rural sweets, that charm the pensive Muse,
As she her contemplative flow'ry path pursues!

SONNET VIII. TO JOHN HORNE TOOKE, ESQ.

Champion of freedom, friend to all mankind,
Let Britons hail the day which gave thee birth;
Thou who would'st guide with truth the erring mind,
And crown with peace all nations of the earth.
Ne'er didst thou, Tooke, swerve from the public weal;
Ne'er didst thou climb Ambition's tow'ring height;
Corruption trembles at thy manly zeal,
As sinks Oppression at the hero's might.
When Gallia's sons shook off despotic pow'r,
And from their clime fell Superstition hurl'd,
Thou, Britain's Patriot! didst proclaim the hour
When heav'n-born Freedom smil'd upon the world.
Long shall thy suff'rings tell thy country's shame,
And long fair Virtue's sons shall venerate thy name.

SONNET IX. TO THE RIVER EDEN.

Thou murm'ring emblem of a troubled mind,
That wak'st fond Memory's tear, for ever true!
Time was, when, on thy moss-grown bank reclin'd,
I view'd thy surface ruffled by the wind,
As eager, light-wing'd Fancy forward flew;
Then did I dream of joys I ne'er could find—
'Twas life's gay spring, and sorrows were but few.
Sweet stream! whose mournful melody is dear,
Far from fell Slander and her wolfish brood!
A wand'rer oft, thy flow'r-clad margin near,
I'll pensive think of man's ingratitude;
And youth's gay age, when Mirth oft led me here,
Ere Mis'ry bade me drop the painful tear,
Or Hope, with flatt'ring tale, this bosom did delude.

SONNET X. TO A REDBREAST, WHICH VISITED THE AUTHOR DAILY FOR SOME MONTHS.

WRITTEN NOV. 1796.

Domestic songster of the waning year,
I bid thee welcome, and thy wild notes greet;
Altho' they tell th'approach of winter drear,
No artful concert's to mine ear so sweet!
Emblem of Poverty! how hard thy fate
When the wild tempests scowl along the sky!
E'en now methinks thou wail'st thy absent mate,
Singing thy love-lorn song:—just so do I.
Peace to the bard , who, taught by Nature's law,
From tyrant man at once could set thee free:
Oft have I read his plaintive tale of woe,
Oft shed a tear for Innocence and thee.
Come then, sweet bird! nor wander to and fro,
Welcome to share this humble roof with me.

SONNET XI. TO THE SAME.

WRITTEN MARCH, 1797.

Now angry Winter's breath is felt no more,
And hush'd the blast that rag'd the woods along;
Thou welcome partner of my scanty store,
Dost give thy little all—a cheerful song.
Sweet is that song of gratitude to me,
Tho' oft methinks each note doth bid adieu.
Poor bird! would man to man but prove so true
Thro' life's rough voyage as I have been to thee,
How cheerly mortals might their path pursue,
Who sink beneath the load of poverty!
Tho' thy wild minstrelsy to me is dear,
Yet go thy ways, fond wand'rer, seek the grove;
Spring calls thee forth—go taste the joys of love;
And when wild Autumn Summer's sweets shall sear,
Revisit then my cot—again I'll prove
Thy friend, and shield thee from the storm severe.

SONNET XII. TO A YOUNG LADY LABOURING UNDER A SEVERE ILLNESS.

Emblem of Innocence, the Snowdrop meek,
Around in early spring its fragrance pours;
The firstling fair bends from the wild winds bleak,
Recov'ring with the genial noon-tide hours.
So, child of Virtue! didst thou pour thy song,
By Nature taught, in Solitude's lone grove,
Breathing sweet lays of innocence and love,
Thy “wild notes” charming oft the list'ning throng,
Till pale Disease, to whom e'en kings must bend,
Stole from thy cheek Health's fairest blushing rose:
Yet grieve not, since that Pow'r who marks thy woes
His sorrow-soothing balm to thee may lend,
Bidding those virtues yet a while to bloom,
That, by Religion led, can triumph o'er the tomb.

SONNET XIII. TO A POOR BOY.

Meek child of Want! I pity thy distress,
For I have learn'd to feel another's woe;
Yes,—my heart pants to make thy sorrows less,
And dry the tear which Mis'ry bids to flow.
Ye, whom nor cold nor pining hunger press,
Nor frowning Poverty's sad anguish know,
What boots it that ye shine like insects gay,
The vain, unthinking parasites of pow'r!
How oft doth syren Vice lead you astray,
How oft embitter Pleasure's gayest hour!
Tho' never thou enjoy'st the plenteous meal,
Tho' tatter'd thy coarse weeds, yet, poor forlorn!
Sooner thy keenest sorrows would I feel,
Than be the son of Wealth that mocks thy woes with scorn!

SONNET XIV. TO ELIZA.

O lovely Maid, whose bosom knows no guile!
Enchanting fair, that robs me of my rest!
Fond Fancy traces oft thy heav'nly smile,
Which rais'd a passion in this peaceful breast.
Tho' distant from the place I hold so dear,
I ne'er forget those joys I knew of late;
But, like the dove who mourns his absent mate,
Pining in grief, love prompts the painful tear.
Lonely I range the briary woods along,
Where Nature's wildness charm'd my infant view;
Pensive I hear at noon the woodlark's song—
Still busy Memory paints our last adieu;
For what avails to me the beauties of the grove,
Since I am doom'd to mourn far from the maid I love!

SONNET XV. TO A PRETENDED FRIEND.

Since all are wand'rers o'er life's dreary waste,
If, faint and weary, by the path-way side,
I saw a fellow-traveller in distress,
Tho' weak, I would stretch forth my feeble arm
To help him on—nor deem the time misspent.
So thou hast said full oft; but, when pale Want,
Unwelcome visitor! with pallid eye,
Came stalking in upon me, thou wert fled.
Thus the poor seaman, on the stormy deep,
Sees dangers press; and, by the fancied land
Lur'd from his wonted course, he sighs and sinks.
Yet may chill Poverty ne'er be thy lot,
Nor thou e'er taste Misfortune's bitter draught,
But drink the cup thou would'st not hold to others.

SONNET XVI. NIGHT.

Now solemn Night her sable curtain draws,
Pale Cynthia steals her silv'ry course along;
No noise disturbs the villager's repose,
Save philomel, who mourns in plaintive song.
The scatter'd prospects on the distant plain,
The lofty tow'rs that draw the wand'rer nigh,
Are hid in darkness from the busy eye,
Since awful Night's assum'd her silent reign.
The whisp'ring breeze that gently sweeps the dale,
The roaring surge that courts the rising wind,
Now soothe a while the contemplative mind,
In wand'ring thro' life's solitary vale;
Whilst the twinkling stars, and cheering orb of night,
Point out to feeble man his great Creator's might.

SONNET XVII. TO THE RIVER CALDEW.

Tho' down thy silv'ry current, winding stream,
Proud Commerce ne'er doth bend the swelling sail;
Tho' seldom thou hast been the poet's theme;
Yet canst thou boast of many a bowery vale,
The wood umbrageous and the flow'r-wov'n glade,
Where Health's pure breeze steals on each fragrant gale;
And near thy banks the artless village maid
Blooms fair as those by Yarrow, Tay, or Tweed:
Nor sings the linnet sweeter in the shade
Where Twick'nham's minstrel tun'd his rapt'rous reed.
O were the art of poesy but mine,
Known to the bard who trod thy willowy shore,
Then should'st thou flow in many a polish'd line;—
But dull the lay whose author knows no classic lore!

SONNET XVIII. TO MR. ROBERT CARLILE.

Accept, O youthful Bard! the humble lays
Of one who'd fain thy modest worth proclaim:
Could I in tuneful numbers sing thy praise,
My soaring muse should tell the world thy fame.
Hail, Nature's child! (whom Learning's sons admire)
She taught thee how to paint each scene with art ;
She taught thee how to tune th'harmonious lyre,
And strike the finest feelings of the heart.
Like thee, I've seen the tender budding rose
Hiding its sweetness from refreshing show'rs,
Blushing its infant beauties to expose,
Till ripen'd age call'd forth its op'ning pow'rs:
Then may thy genius like a rose burst forth,
And Britain boast thy name among her sons of worth.

SONNET XIX. TO ELIZA.

The grief-worn wand'rer, forc'd afar to roam,
Beholds each object with an aching eye;
Cheerless and sad he heaves the rending sigh,
If Memory point but to his native home,
And pines for what he ne'er can hope to gain.
So have I lonely wander'd sweetest maid!
And seen gay Spring call forth each fav'rite flow'r,
Seen rip'ning Summer form the woodbine bow'r,
As, press'd with care, I sought the peaceful shade,
What time grey Eve stole o'er the dewy plain.
Then oft the blackbird, from the brambl'd glade,
His love-lorn song, like me, did plaintive pour:
But cheerful Spring, nor Summer's festive hour,
Could charm, if Fancy thy fair form pourtray'd.

SONNET XX. WRITTEN IN SPRING.

Again gay Spring the rustic calls to love,
And spreads her flow'ry mantle o'er the grove;
The soaring lark again salutes the morn,
And sings to Phœbus oft a cheerful strain;
At eve the ploughman views his rising corn,
And hears soft music echo o'er the plain:
But, ah! gay Spring removes not keen Despair,
Nor soothes the wretched bosom fraught with care!
Whether I seek the thick embow'ring shade,
Or thro' the dasied meadow bend my way,
I court in vain the joys Hope once pourtray'd—
Her fairest blossoms bloom but to decay:
Tir'd Fancy now a gloomy picture draws,
And Sadness round my head her faded garland throws.

SONNET XXI. TO AN UNFORTUNATE FEMALE.

Friendless, unpitied wand'rer of the night,
The scorn of Pride, who seldom learns to feel,
O that thy painful suff'rings I could heal,
And shield thee from a world too apt to slight!
Dead are the blushes that did once adorn
The cheek of Virtue, some fond parent's pride,
Who dreamt not syren Pleasure, in life's morn,
From Virtue's path would draw thy steps aside.
And shall Misfortune then make vice a law?
Must bleeding Innocence steal from thy breast?
Shall thy keen sorrows banish Peace and Rest,
And calm Reflection come too late?—Ah, no!
Thou child of Misery, of each joy bereft,
Religion's saving comfort yet for thee is left!

SONNET XXII.

[Let others praise the splendour of the town]

Let others praise the splendour of the town,
Where Wealth unfeeling, Misery doth deride;
Where patient Merit seldom gains renown,
But sinks beneath the bitter taunt of Pride,
And Virtue pines in want; while Vice on down
Sees pamper'd Folly fatt'ning by her side.
Tho' Grandeur scorns me, and my cot be rude;
Tho' doom'd to tread thro' life a thorny way;
Tho' the fair flow'rs, by youthful Fancy strew'd,
Ere manhood's prime, had hasten'd to decay,
And on my steps doth Sorrow aye intrude,
Dark'ning the light of Hope's heart-cheering ray;
Yet fain with thee I'd dwell, sweet Solitude,
And, far from Riot, wait life's closing day.