Elegaic sonnets, and other poems. By Charlotte Smith.

ELEGIAC SONNETS.

SONNET I.

THE partial Muse has, from my earliest hours, Smil'd on the rugged path I'm doom'd to tread, And still with sportive hand has snatch'd wild flow'rs, To weave fantastic garlands for my head: But far, far happier is the lot of those Who never learn'd her dear delusive art; Which, while it decks the head with many a rose, Reserves the thorn, to fester in the heart. For still she bids soft Pity's melting eye Stream o'er the ills she knows not to remove, Points ev'ry pang, and deepens ev'ry sigh Of mourning Friendship, or unhappy Love. Ah! then, how dear the Muse's favors cost, If those paint sorrow best—who feel it most. [ 14]

SONNET II. Written at the Close of Spring.

THE garlands fade that Spring so lately wove, Each simple flow'r, which she had nurs'd in dew, Anemonies that spangled every grove, [ 3] The primrose wan, and harebell, mildly blue. No more shall violets linger in the dell, Or purple orchis variegate the plain, Till Spring again shall call forth every bell, And dress with humid hands her wreaths again.— Ah, poor Humanity! so frail, so fair, Are the fond visions of thy early day, Till tyrant Passion, and corrosive Care, Bid all thy fairy colours fade away! Another May new buds and flow'rs shall bring; Ah! Why has Happiness—no second Spring?

SONNET III. To a Nightingale.

POOR melancholy bird—that all night long [ 1] Tell'st to the Moon thy tale of tender woe; From what sad cause can such sweet sorrow flow, And whence this mournful melody of song?

Thy poet's musing fancy would translate What mean the sounds that swell thy little breast, When still at dewy eve thou leav'st thy nest, Thus to the list'ning night to sing thy fate?

Pale Sorrow's victims wert thou once among, Tho' now releas'd in woodlands wild to rove? Say—Hast thou felt from friends some cruel wrong, Or diedst thou—martyr of disastrous love? Ah, songstress sad! that such my lot might be, To sigh and sing, at liberty—like thee!

SONNET IV. To the Moon.

QUEEN of the silver bow!—by thy pale beam, Alone and pensive, I delight to stray, And watch thy shadow trembling in the stream, Or mark the floating clouds that cross thy way. And while I gaze, thy mild and placid light Sheds a soft calm upon my troubled breast; And oft I think—fair planet of the night— That in thy orb, the wretched may have rest: The suff'rers of the earth perhaps may go, Releas'd by Death—to thy benignant sphere, And the sad children of Despair and Woe Forget, in thee, their cup of sorrow here. Oh! that I soon may reach thy world serene, Poor wearied pilgrim—in this toiling scene!

[figure]

Queen of the Silver Bow! &c. —

SONNET V. To the South Downs.

AH, hills belov'd!—where once a happy child, Your beechen shades, `your turf, your flow'rs among,' [ 2] I wove your bluebells into garlands wild, And woke your echoes with my artless song. Ah, hills belov'd!—your turf, your flow'rs remain; But, Can they peace to this sad breast restore? For one poor moment soothe the sense of pain, And teach a breaking heart to throb no more? And you, Aruna!—in the vale below, [ 9] As to the sea your limpid waves you bear, Can you one kind Lethea•• cup bestow, To drink a long oblivion to my care? Ah, no!—when all, e'en Hope's last ray is gone, There's no oblivion—but in Death alone!

SONNET VI. To Hope.

OH, Hope! thou soother sweet of human woes! How shall I lure thee to my haunts forlorn! For me wilt thou renew the wither'd rose, And clear my painful path of pointed thorn? Ah come, sweet nymph! in smiles and softness drest, Like the young hours that lead the tender year; Enchantress come! and charm my cares to rest:— Alas! the flatterer flies, and will not hear! A prey to fear, anxiety and pain, Must I a sad existence still deplore? Lo!—the flow'rs fade, but all the thorns remain, `For me the vernal garland blooms no more.' [ 12] Come then `pale Misery's love!' be thou my cure, [ 13] And I will bless thee, who tho' slow art sure.

SONNET VII. On the Departure of the Nightingale.

SWEET poet of the woods—a long adieu! Farewell, soft minatrel of the early year! Ah! 'twill be long ere thou shalt sing anew, And pour thy music on the `night's dull ear.' [ 4] Whether on Spring thy wandering flights await, [ 5] Or whether silent in our groves you dwell, The pensive muse shall own thee for her mate, [ 7] And still protect the song the loves so well. With cautious step the lovelorn youth shall glide Thro' the lone brake that shades thy mossy nest; And shepherd girls, from eyes profane shall hide The gentle bird, who sings of pity best: For still thy voice shall soft affections move, And still be dear to sorrow, and to love!

SONNET VIII. To Spring.

AGAIN the wood, and long withdrawing vale, In many a tint of tender green are drest, Where the young leaves unfolding, scarce conceal, Beneath their early shade, the half form'd nest Of finch or woodlark; and the primrose pale, And lavish cowslip, wildly scatter'd round, Give their sweet spirits to the sighing gale. Ah, season of delight!—could aught be found To soothe awhile the tortur'd bosom's pain, Of Sorrow's rankling shaft to cure the wound, And bring life's first delusions once again, 'Twere surely met in thee!—thy prospect fair, Thy sounds of harmony, thy balmy air, Have power to cure all sadness—but despair. [ 14]

SONNET IX.

BLEST is yon shepherd, on the turf reclin'd, Who, on the varied clouds which float above, Lies idly gazing—while his vacant mind Pours out some tale antique of rural love! Ah! he has never felt the pangs that move Th' indignant spirit, when with selfish pride, Friends, on whose faith the trusting heart rely'd, Unkindly shun th' imploring eye of woe! The ills they ought to soothe, with taunts deride, And laugh at tears themselves have forc'd to flow. [ 10] Nor his rude bosom those fine feelings melt, Children of Sentiment and Knowledge born, Thro' whom each shaft with cruel force is felt Empoison'd by deceit—or barb'd with scorn.

SONNET X. To Mrs. G***.

AH! Why will Memory with officious care The long lost visions of my days renew! Why paint the vernal landscape green and fair, When life's gay dawn was opening to my view! Ah! Wherefore bring those moments of delight, When with my Anna, on the southern shore, I thought the future as the present bright! Ye dear delusions!—ye return no more! Alas! How diff'rent does the truth appear, From the warm picture youth's rash hand pourtrays! How fades the scene, as we approach it near, And pain and sorrow strike—how many ways! Yet of that tender heart, ah! still retain A share for me—and I will not complain!

SONNET XI. To Sleep.

COME balmy Sleep! tir'd Nature's soft resort! On these sad temples all thy poppies shed; And bid gay dreams from Morpheus' airy court, Float in light vision round my aching head! Secure of all thy blessings, partial Power! On his hard bed the peasant throws him down; And the poor sea boy, in the rudest hour, [ 7] Enjoys thee more than he who wears a crown. Clasp'd in her faithful shepherd's guardian arms, Well may the village girl sweet slumbers prove; And they, O gentle Sleep! still taste thy charms, Who wake to labour, liberty and love. But still thy opiate aid dost thou deny To calm the anxious breast; to close the streaming eye.

SONNET XII. Written on the Sea Shore.—October, 1784.

ON some rude fragment of the rocky shore, Where on the fractur'd cliff, the billows break, Musing, my solitary seat I take, And listen to the deep and solemn roar.

O'er the dark waves the winds tempestuous howl; The screaming sea bird quits the troubled sea: But the wild gloomy scene has charms for me, And suits the mournful temper of my soul. [ 8]

Already shipwreck'd by the storms of Fate, Like the poor mariner methinks I stand, Cast on a rock; who sees the distant land, From whence no succour comes, or comes too late. Faint and more faint are heard his feeble cries, 'Till in the rising tide, th' exhausted sufferer dies.

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On some rude fragment of the rocky shore

SONNET XIII. From Petrarch.

OH! place me where the burning noon [ 7] Forbids the wither'd flow'r to blow; Or place me in the frigid zone, On mountains of eternal snow: Let me pursue the steps of Fame, Or Poverty's more tranquil road; Let youth's warm tide my veins inflame, Or sixty winters chill my blood: Tho' my fond soul to Heav'n were flown, Or tho' on Earth 'tis doom'd to pine, Prisoner or free—obscure or known, My heart, oh Laura! still is thine. Whate'er my destiny may be, That faithful heart, still burns for thee!

SONNET XIV. From Petrarch.

LOOSE to the wind her golden tresses stream'd, [ 1] Forming brightwaves, withamorous Zephyr's sight; And tho' averted now, her charming eyes Then with warm love, and melting pity beam'd. Was I deceiv'd?—Ah! surely, nymph divine! That fine suffusion on thy check, was love; What wonder then those beauteous tints should move, Should fire this heart, this tender heart of mine! Thy soft melodious voice, thy air, thy shape, Were of a goddess—not a mortal maid; Yet tho' thy charms, thy heav'nly charms should fade, My heart, my tender heart could not escape; Nor cure for me in time or change be found: The shaft extracted, does not cure the wound!

SONNET XV. From Petrarch.

WHERE the green leaves exclude the summer beam, [ 1] And softly bend as balmy breezes blow, And where, with liquid lapse, the lucid stream Across the fretted rock is heard to flow, Pensive I lay: When she whom Earth concease, As if still living, to my eyes appears, And pitying Heaven her angel form reveals, To say—`Unhappy Petrarch, dry your tears; `Ah! Why sad lover! thus before your time, `In grief and sadness should your life decay, `And like a blighted flow'r, your manly prime `In vain and hopeless sorrow, fade away? `Ah! Yield not thus to culpable despair, `But raise thine eyes to Heav'n—and think I wait thee there.'

SONNET XVI. From Petrarch.

YE vales and woods! fair scenes of happier hours! [ 1] Ye feather'd people, tenants of the grove! And you, ••right stream! befring'd with ••hrubs and flow'rs, Behold my grief, ye witnesses of love!

For ye beheld my infant passion rise, And saw thro' years unchang'd my faithful fl••••e▪ Now cold, in dust, the beauteous object lies, And you, ye conscious scenes, are still the same!

While busy memory still delights to dwell On all the charms theme bitter tears deplore, And with a trembling hand describes too well The angel form I shall behold no more! To Heaven she's fled! and nought to me remains But the pale ashes, which her urn contains.

SONNET XVII. From the thirteenth Cantata of Metastasio.

ON thy gray bark, in witness of my flame, [ 1] I carve Miranda's cypher—beauteous tree! Grac'd with the lovely letters of her name, Henceforth be sacred to my love and me! Tho' the tall elm, the oak and darker pine, With broader arms, may noon's fierce ardors break, To shelter me, and her I love, be thine; And thine to see her smile and hear her speak. No bird, ill omen'd, round thy graceful head Shall clamour harsh, or wave his heavy wing, But fern and flow'rs arise beneath thy shade, Where the wild bees, their lullabies shall sing, And in thy boughs the murmuring ringdove rest; And there the nightingale shall build her nest.

SONNET XVIII. To the Earl of Egremont.

WYNDHAM! 'tis not thy blood, tho' pure it runs Thro' a long line of glorious ancestry, Percys and Seymours, Britain's boasted sons, Who trust the honors of their race to thee:

'Tis not thy splendid domes, where science loves To touch the canvas, and the bust to raise; Thy rich domains, fair fields and spreading groves; 'Tis not all these the Muse delights to praise!

In birth, and wealth and honors, great thou art! But nobler, in thy independent mind; And in that liberal hand and feeling heart Giv'n thee by Heav'n—a blessing to mankind! Unworthy oft may titled fortune be; A soul like thine—is true Nobility!

SONNET XIX. To Mr. Hayley. On receiving some elegant Lines from him.

FOR me the Muse a simple band design'd Of `idle' flow'rs, that bloom the woods among, Which with the cypress and the willow join'd, A garland form'd, as artless as my song: And little dar'd I hope its transient hours So long would last; compos'd of buds so brief; 'Till Hayley's hand among the vagrant flow'rs, Threw from his verdant crown, a deathless leaf. For high in Fame's bright fane has Judgment plac'd The laurel wreath Serena's poet won; Which, wov'n with myrtles by the hands of Taste, The Muse decreed, for this her favourite son. And those immortal leaves his temples shade, Whose fair eternal verdure—shall not fade!

SONNET XX. To the Cotentess of A****. Written on the Anniversary of her Marriage.

ON this 〈◊〉〈◊〉 day may no dark cloud or 〈◊〉〈◊〉 With envious shade, the Sun's bright influence hide; But all his rays illume the favour'd hour, That saw thee, Mary!—Henry's lovely bride!

With years revolving may it still arise, Blest with each good approving Heav'n can lend! And still with ray serene, shall those blue eyes Enchant the husband, and attach the friend!

For you, fair Friendship's amaranth shall blow, And Love's own thornless roses, bind your brow! And when, long hence, to happier worlds you go, Your beauteous race shall be, what you are now! And future Nevills thro' long ages shine, With hearts as good, and forms as fair as thine!

SONNET XXI. Supposed to be written by Werter.

GO! cruel tyrant of the human breast! To other hearts, thy burning arrows bear; Go, where fond Hope, and fair Illusion rest! Ah! Why should love inhabit with despair! Like the poor maniac I linger here, [ 5] Still haunt the scene, where all my treasure lies; Still seek for flow'rs, where only thorns appear, `And drink delicious poison from her eyes!' [ 8] Tow'rds the deep gulph that opens on my sight I hurry forward, Passion's helpless slave! And scorning Reason's mild and sober light, Pursue the path that leads me to the grave! So round the flame the giddy insect flies, And courts the fatal fire, by which it dies!

SONNET XXII. By the same. To Solitude.

OH, Solitude; to thy sequester'd vale [ 1] I come to hide my sorrow and my tears, And to thy 〈◊〉〈◊〉 tell the mournful tale Which sca••••e I trust to pitying Friendship's ears! Amidst thy wild woods, and untrodden glades, No sounds but those of melancholy move; And the low winds that die among thy shades, Seem like soft Pity's sighs, for hopeless love! And sure some story of despair and pain, In yon deep copse, thy murm'ring doves relate; And hark! methinks in that long plaintive strain, Thine own sweet songstress weeps my wayward fate! Ah, Nymph! that fate assist me to endure, And bear awhile—what Death alone can cure!

SONNET XXIII. By the same. To the North Star.

TO thy bright beams I turn my swimming eyes, [ 1] Fair, fav'rite planet! which in happier days Saw my young hopes, ah! faithless hopes!—arise; And on my passion shed propitious rays! Now nightly wandering mid the tempests drear That howl the woods, and rocky steeps among, I love to see thy sudden light appear Thro' the swift clouds, driv'n by the wind along: Or in the turbid water, rude and dark, O'er whose wild stream the gust of Winter raves, Thy trembling light with pleasure still I mark, Gleam in faint radiance on the foaming waves! So o'er my soul short rays of reason fly, Then fade:—and leave me, to despair and die!

SONNET XXIV. By the same.

MAKE there my tomb beneath the lime trees' shade, [ 1] Where grass and flow'rs, in wild luxuriance wave; Let no memorial mark where I am laid, Or point to common eyes the lover's grave! But oft at twilight morn, or closing day, The faithful friend, with fault'ring step shall glide, Tributes of fond regret by stealth to pay, And sigh o'er the unhappy suicide! And sometimes, when the Sun with parting rays Gilds the long grass that hides my silent bed, The tear shall tremble in my CHARLOTTE's eyes; Dear, precious drops! they shall embalm the dead; Yes! CHARLOTTE o'er the mournful spot shall weep, Where her poor WERTER, and his sorrows—sleep.

SONNET XXV. By the same. Just before his Death.

WHY should I wish to hold in this low sphere [ 1] `A frail and feverish being?' wherefore try Poorly from day to day to linger here, Against the powerful hand of Destiny? By those who know the force of hopeless care, On the worn heart—I sure shall be forgiv'n, If to elude dark guilt, and dire despair, I go uncall'd—to mercy and to Heav'n! Oh thou! to save whose peace I now depart, Will thy soft mind, thy poor lost friend deplore, When worms shall feed on this devoted heart, [ 11] Where e'en thy image shall be found no more? Yet may thy pity mingle not with pain, For then thy hapless lover—dies in vain!

SONNET XXVI. To the River Arun.

ON thy wild banks, by frequent torrents worn, No glittering fanes, or marble domes appear, Yet shall the mournful muse thy course adorn, And still to her thy rustic waves be dear. For with the infant Otway, lingering here, [ 5] Of early woes she bade her vot'ry dream, While thy low murmurs sooth'd his pensive ear, And still the poet—consecrates the stream. Beneath the oak and birch, that fringe thy side, The firstborn violets of the year shall spring, And in thy hazles, bending o'er the tide, The earliest nightingale delight to sing: While kindred spirits, pitying, shall relate Thy Otway's sorrows, and lament his fate!

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For with the infant. Otway lingering here

SONNET XXVII.

SIGHING I see you little troop at play; By sorrow yet untouch'd; unhurt by care; While free and sportive they enjoy today, `Content and careless of tomorrow's fare!' [ 4] O happy age! when Hope's unclouded ray Lights their green path, and prompts their simple mirth, Ere yet they feel the thorns that lurking lay To wound the wretched pilgrims of the earth, Making them rue the hour that gave them birth, And threw them on a world so full of pain, Where prosperous Folly treads on patient Worth, And to deaf Pride, Misfortune pleads in vain! Ah!—for their future fate how many fears Oppress my heart—and fill mine eyes with tears!

SONNET XXVIII. To Friendship.

OH thou! whose name too often is profan'd! Whose charms, celestial! few have hearts to feel! Unknown to Folly—and by Pride disdain'd! —To thy soft solace may my sorrows steal! Like the fair Moon, thy mild and genuine ray, Thro' life's long evening shall unclouded last; While Pleasure's frail attachments fleet away, As fades the rainbow from the northern blast! Tis thine, oh Nymph! with `balmy hands to bind' [ 9] The wounds inflicted in Misfortune's storm, And blunt severe Affliction's sharpest dart! —'Tis thy pure spirit warms my Anna's mind, Beams thro' the pensive softness of her form, And holds its altar—on her spotless heart!

SONNET XXIX. To Miss C****. On being desired to attempt writing a Comedy.

WOULD'ST thou then have me tempt the comic scene Of gay Thalia? Us'd so long to tread The gloomy paths of Sorrow's cypress shade; And the lorn lay, with sighs and tears to stain! Alas! how much unfit her sprightly vein! Arduous to try!—and seek the sunny mead, And bow'rs of roses, where she loves to lead The sportive subjects of her golden reign! Enough for me, if still, to soothe my days, Her fair and pensive sister condescend, With tearful smile, to bless my simple lays; Enough, if her soft notes she sometimes lend, To gain for me, of feeling hearts the praise, And chiefly thine, my ever partial friend!

SONNET XXX. To the River Arun.

BE the proud Thames, of trade the busy mart! Arun! to thee will other praise belong; Dear to the lover's and the mourner's heart, And ever sacred to the Sons of Song!

Thy banks romantic, hopeless Love shall seek, Where o'er the rocks the mantling bindwith flaunts, [ 6] And Sorrow's drooping form and faded cheek, Choose on thy willow'd shore her lonely haunts!

Banks! which inspir'd thy Otway's plaintive strain! [ 9] Wilds! whose lorn echoes learn'd the deeper tone Of Collins' pow'rful shell! yet once again Another poet—Hayley, is thine own! Thy classic stream anew shall hear a lay, Bright as its waves, and various as its way!

SONNET XXXI. Written on Farm Wood, South Downs, May, 1784.

SPRING's dewy hand on this fair summit weaves The downy grass, with tufts of Alpine flow'rs, [ 2] And shades the beechen slopes with tender leaves, And leads the shepherd to his upland bow'rs, Strewn with wild thyme; while slow descending show'rs, Feed the green ear, and nurse the future sheaves! —Ah! blest the hind, whom no sad thought bereaves Of the gay Season's pleasures!—All his hours To wholesome labour giv'n, or thoughtless mirth; No pangs of sorrow past, or coming dread, Bend his unconscious spirit down to earth, Or chase calm slumbers from his careless head! Ah! What to me can those dear days restore, When scenes could charm, that now I taste no more!

SONNET XXXII. To Melancholy. Written on the Banks of the Arun, October, 1785.

WHEN latest Autumn spreads her evening veil And the gray mists from these dim waves arise, I love to listen to the hollow sighs, Thro' the half leafless wood that breathes the gale. For at such hours the shadowy phantom, pale, Oft seems to fleet before the poet's eyes; Strange sounds are heard, and mournful melodies, As of night wand'rers, who their woes bewail! Here, by his native stream, at such an hour, Pity's own Otway, I methinks could meet, And hear his deep sighs swell the sadden'd wind! Oh Melancholy!—such thy magic power, That to the soul these dreams are often sweet, And soothe the pensive visionary mind!

SONNET XXXIII. To the Naiad of the Arun.

GO! rural Naiad; wind thy stream along Thro' woods and wilds; then seek the ocean caves Where sea nymphs meet, their coral rocks among, To boast the various honors of their waves! 'Tis but a little, o'er thy shallow tide, That toiling Trade her burthen'd vessel leads; But laurels grow luxuriant on thy side, And letters live, along thy classic meads. Lo! where 'mid British bards thy natives shine! [ 9] And now another poet helps to raise Thy glory high—the poet of the MINE! Whose brilliant talents are his smallest praise: And who, to all that genius can impart, Adds the cool head, and the unblemish'd heart!

SONNET XXXIV. To a Friend.

CHARM'D by thy suffrage, shall I yet aspire, (All inauspicious as my fate appears, By troubles darken'd, that increase with years,) To guide the crayon, or to touch the lyre? Ah me!—the sister Muses still require A spirit free from all intrusive fears, Nor will they deign to wipe away the tears Of vain regret, that dim their sacred fire. But when thy envied sanction crowns my lays, A ray of pleasure lights my languid mind, For well I know the value of thy praise; And to how few, the flatt'ring meed confin'd, That thou, their highly favour'd brows to bind, Wilt weave green myrtle and unfading bays!

SONNET XXXV. To Fortitude.

NYMPH of the rock! whose dauntless spirit braves The beating storm, and bitter winds that howl Round thy cold breast; and hear'st the bursting waves, And the deep thunder with unshaken soul; Oh come! and shew how vain the cares that press On my weak bosom—and how little worth Is the false fleeting meteor, Happiness, That still misleads the wand'rers of the earth! Strengthen'd by thee, this heart shall cease to melt O'er ills that poor Humanity must bear; Nor friends estrang'd, or ties dissolv'd be felt To leave regret, and fruitless anguish there: And when at length it heaves its latest sigh, Thou, and mild Hope, shall teach me how to die!

SONNET XXXVI.

SHOULD the lone Wand'rer, fainting on his way, Rest for a moment of the sultry hours, And tho' his path thro' thorns and roughness lay, Pluck the wild rose, or wood bine's gadding flow'rs; Weaving gay wreaths, beneath some shelt'ring tree, The sense of sorrow, he awhile may lose; So have I sought thy flow'rs, fair Poesy! So charm'd my way, with Friendship and the Muse. But darker now grows Life's unhappy day, Dark, with new clouds of evil yet to come, Her pencil sickening Fancy throws away, And weary Hope reclines upon the tomb; And points my wishes to that tranquil shore, Where the pale spectre Care, pursues no more.

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Her pencil sickening fancy throws away And weary hope reclines upon the tomb.

SONNET XXXVII. Sent to the Hon. Mrs. O'Niell, with painted Flowers.

THE poet's fancy takes from Flora's realm Her buds and leaves to dress fictitious powers, With the green olive shades Minerva's helm, And gives to Beauty's Queen, the Queen of Flowers. But what gay blossoms of luxuriant Spring, With rose, mimosa, amaranth entwin'd, Shall fabled Sylphs, and fairy people bring, As a just emblem of the lovely mind? In vain the mimic pencil tries to blend The glowing dyes that dress the flow'ry race, Scented and colour'd by a hand divine! Ah! not less vainly would the Muse pretend On her weak lyre, to sing the native grace And native goodness of a soul like thine!

SONNET XXXVIII. From the Novel of Emmeline.

WHEN welcome slumber sets my spirit free, Forth to fictitious happiness it flies, And where Elysian bow'rs of bliss arise I seem, my Emmeline—to meet with thee! Ah! Fancy then, dissolving human ties, Gives me the wishes of my soul to see; Tears of fond pity fill thy soften'd eyes; In heav'nly harmony—our hearts agree. Alas! these joys are mine in dreams alone, When cruel Reason abdicates her throne! Her harsh return condemns me to complain Thro' life unpitied, unreliev'd, unknown. And as the dear delusions leave my brain, She bids the truth recur—with aggravated pain.

SONNET XXXIX. To Night. From the same.

I LOVE thee, mournful, sobersuited night, When the faint moon, yet ling'ring in her wane, And veil'd in clouds, with pale uncertain light Hangs o'er the waters of the restless main. In deep depression sunk, th' enfeebled mind Will to the deaf, cold elements complain, And tell th' embosom'd grief, however vain, To sullen surges and the viewless wind. Tho' no repose on thy dark breast I find, I still enjoy thee—cheerless as thou art; For in thy quiet gloom, th' exhausted heart Is calm, tho' wretched; hopeless, yet resign'd. While, to the winds and waves its sorrows giv'n, May reach—tho' lost on earth—the ear of Heav'n!

SONNET XL. From the same.

FAR on the sands, the low, retiring tide, In distant murmurs hardly seems to flow, And o'er the world of waters, blue and wide, The sighing summer wind forgets to blow. As sinks the daystar in the rosy West, The silent wave, with rich reflection glows; Alas! Can tranquil Nature give me rest, Or scenes of beauty, soothe me to repose? Can the soft lustre of the sleeping main, Yon radiant Heaven, or all Creation's charms, `Erase the written troubles of the brain,' Which Memory tortures, and which Guilt alarms? Or bid a bosom transient quiet prove, That bleeds with vain remorse, and unextinguish'd love!

SONNET XLI. To Tranquillity.

IN this tumultuous sphere, for thee unfit, How seldom art thou found—Tranquillity! Unless 'tis when with mild and downcast eye, By the low cradles, thou delight'st to sit, Of sleeping infants—watching the soft breath, And bidding the sweet slumb'rers easy lie; Or sometimes hanging o'er the bed of death, Where the poor languid suff'rer—hopes to die. Oh! beauteous sister of the halcyon Peace! I sure shall find thee in that heav'nly scene Where Care and Anguish shall their pow'r regin; Where Hope alike, and vain Regret shall cease; And Memory—lost in happiness serene, Repeat no more—that misery has been mine!

SONNET XLII. Composed during a Walk on the Downs, Nov. 1787.

THE dark and pillowy cloud; the sallow trees, Seem o'er the ruins of the year to mourn; And cold and hollow, the inconstant breeze Sobs thro' the falling leaves and wither'd fern. O'er the tall brow of yonder chalky bourn, The evening shades their gather'd darkness fling, While, by the ling'ring light, I scarce discern The shrieking nightjar, sail on heavy wing. [ 8] Ah! yet a little—and propitious Spring, Crown'd with fresh flow'rs, shall wake the woodland strain; But no gay change revolving seasons bring, To call forth Pleasure from the soul of Pain, Bid syren Hope resume her long lost part, And chase the vulture Care, that feeds upon the heart.

SONNET XLIII.

THE unhappy exile, whom his fates confine To the bleak coast of some unfriendly isle, Cold, barren, desert, where no harvests smile, But thirst and hunger on the rocks repine; When, from some promontory's fearful brow, Sun after sun he hopeless sees decline In the broad shipless sea—perhaps may know Such heartless pain, such blank despair as mine; And, if a flatt'ring cloud appears to show The fancied semblance of a distant sail, Then melts away—anew his spirits fail, While the lost hope but aggravates his woe! Ah! so for me delusive Fancy toils, Then, from contrasted truth—my feeble soul recoils.

SONNET XLIV. Written in the Church Yard at Middleton in Sussex.

PRESS'D by the Moon, mute arbitress of tides, While the loud equinox its pow'r combines, The sea no more its swelling surge confines, But o'er the shrinking land sublimely rides. The wild blasts, rising from the western cave, Drives the huge billows from their heaving bed; Tears from their grassy tombs the village dead, [ 7] And breaks the silent sabbath of the grave! With shells and seaweed mingled, on the shore, Lo! their bones whiten in the frequent wave; But vain to them the winds and waters rave; They hear the warring elements no more: While I am doom'd—by life's long storm opprest, To gaze with envy, on their gloomy rest.

SONNET XLV. On leaving a part of Sussex.

FAREWELL Aruna!—on whose varied shore My early vows were paid to Nature's shrine, When thoughtless Joy, and infant Hope were mine, And whose lorn stream has heard me since deplore Too many sorrows! Sighing I resign Thy solitary beauties—and no more, Or on thy rocks, or in thy woods recline, Or on the heath, by moonlight ling'ring, pore On air drawn phantoms—While in Fancy's ear As in the evening wind thy murmurs swell, Th' Enthusiast of the Lyre, who wander'd here, [ 11] Seems yet to strike his visionary shell, Of power to call forth Pity's tend'rest tear, Or wake wild Frenzy—from her hideous cell!

SONNET XLVI. Written at Penshurst, in Autumn, 1788.

YE Tow'rs sublime, deserted now and drear, Ye woods, deep sighing to the hollow blast, The musing wand'rer loves to linger near, While History points to all your glories past: And startling from their haunts the timid deer, To trace the walks obscur'd by matted fern, Which Waller's soothing lyre were wont to hear, But where now clamours the discordant hern! [ 8] The spoiling hand of Time may overturn These lofty battlements, and quite deface The fading canvas whence we love to learn Sydney's keen look, and Sacharissa's grace; But Fame and Beauty still defy decay, Sav'd by th' historic page—the poet's tender lay!

SONNET XLVII. To Fancy.

THEE, Queen of Shadows!—shall I still invoke, Still love the scenes thy sportive pencil drew, When on mine eyes the early radiance broke Which shew'd the beauteous, rather than the true! Alas! long since, those glowing tints are dead, And now 'tis thine in darkest hues to dress The spot where pale Experience hangs her head O'er the sad grave of murder'd Happiness! Thro' thy false medium then, no longer view'd, May fancied pain and fancied pleasure fly, And I, as from me all thy dreams depar•• Be to my wayward destiny subdu'd; Nor seek perfection with a poet's eye, Nor suffer anguish with a poet's heart!

SONNET XLVIII. To Mrs. ****.

NO more my wearied soul attempts to stray From sad Reality and vain Regret, Nor courts enchanting Fiction to allay Sorrows that Sense refuses to forget: For of Calamity so long the prey, Imagination now has lost her pow'rs, Nor will her fairy loom again essay To dress Affliction in a robe of flow'rs. But if no more the bow'rs of Fancy bloom, Let one superior scene attract my view, Where Heav'n's pure rays the sacred spot illume, Let thy lov'd hand with palm and am'ranth strew The mournful path approaching to the tomb, While Faith's consoling voice endears the friendly gloom.

SONNET XLIX. Supposed to have been written in a Church Yard, over the Grave of a Young Woman of nineteen. From the Novel of Celestina.

OH, thou! who sleep'st where hazle bands entwine The vernal grass, with paler violets drest; I would, sweet maid! thy humble bed were mine, And mine thy calm and enviable rest. For never more by human ills opprest, Shall thy soft spirit fruitlessly repine: Thou canst not now, thy fondest hopes resign E'en in the hour that should have made thee blest. Light lies the turf upon thy virgin breast; And ling'ring here, to Love and Sorrow true, The Youth who once thy simple heart possest Shall mingle tears with April's early dew; While still for him shall faithful Memory save Thy form and virtues from the silent grave.

SONNET L. From the Novel of Celestina.

FAREWELL, ye lawns! by fond Remembrance blest, As witnesses of gay unclouded hours; Where, to maternal Friendship's bosom prest, My happy childhood past amid your bow'rs. Ye woodwalks wild!—where leaves and fairy flow'rs By Spring's luxuriant hand are strewn anew; Rocks! whence with shadowy grace rude Nature low'rs O'er glens and haunted streams!—a long adieu! And you!—oh promis'd Happiness!—whose voice Deluded Fancy heard in ev'ry grove, Bidding this tender, trusting heart rejoice In the bright prospect of unfailing love: Tho' lost to me—still may thy smile serene Bless the dear lord—of this regretted scene.

SONNET LI. Supposed to have been written in the Hebrides. From the Novel of Celestina.

ON this lone island, whose unfruitful breast Feeds but the summer shepherd's little flock, With scanty herbage from the half cloth'd rock Where osprays, cormorants and seamews rest; [ 4] E'en in a scene so desolate and rude I could with thee for months and years be blest; And, of thy tenderness and love possest, Find all my world in this wild solitude! When Summer suns these northern seas illume, With thee admire the light's reflected charms, And when drear Winter spreads his cheerless gloom, Still find Elysium in thy shelt'ring arms: For thou to me canst sov'reign bliss impart, Thy mind my empire—and my throne thy heart.

SONNET LII. The Pilgrim. From the Novel of Celestina.

FAULT'RING and sad, th' unhappy Pilgrim roves, Who, on the eve of bleak December's night, Divided far from all he fondly loves, Journeys alone, along the giddy height Of these steep cliffs, and as the sun's last ray Fades in the west, sees, from the rocky verge, Dark tempest scowling o'er the shorten'd day, And hears with ear appall'd, th' impetuous surge Beneath him thunder!—So, with heart oppress'd, Alone, reluctant, desolate and slow, By Friendship's cheering radiance now unblest, Along Life's rudest path I seem to go; Nor see where yet the anxious heart may rest, That trembling at the past—recoils from future woe.

SONNET LIII. The Laplander. From the Novel of Celestina.

THE shiv'ring native, who by Tenglio's side Beholds, with fond regret, the parting light Sink far away, beneath the dark'ning tide, And leave him to long months of dreary night; Yet knows, that springing from the eastern wave, The sun's glad beams shall reillume his way, And from the snows secur'd—within his cave He waits, in patient hope—returning day. Not so the suff'rer feels, who, o'er the waste Of joyless life, is destin'd to deplore Fond love forgotten, tender friendship past, Which, once extinguish'd, can revive no more! O'er the blank void, he looks with hopeless pain; For him those beams of Heaven, shall never shine again.

SONNET LIV. The sleeping Woodman. Written in April, 1790.

YE copses wild, where April bids arise The vernal grasses, and the early flow'rs; My soul depress'd—from human converse flies To the lone shelter of your pathless bow'rs. Lo!—where the Woodman, with his toil oppress'd, His careless head, on bark and moss reclin'd, Lull'd by the song of birds, the murm'ring wind, Has sunk to calm, tho' momentary, rest. Ah! would 'twere mine in Spring's green lap to find Such transient respite from the ills I bear! Would I could taste, like this unthinking hind, A sweet forgetfulness of human care, [ 12] 'Till the last sleep these weary eyes shall close, And Death receive me to his long repose.

SONNET LV. The Return of the Nightingale. Written in May, 1791.

BORNE on the warm wing of the western gale, How tremulously low is heard to float, Thro' the green budding thorns that fringe the vale, The early Nightingale's prelusive note. 'Tis Hope's instinctive pow'r that, thro' the grove, Tells how benignant Heav'n revives the earth; 'Tis the soft voice of young and timid love That calls these melting sounds of sweetness forth. With transport, once, sweet bird! I hail'd thy lay, And bade thee welome to our shades again, To charm the wand'ring poet's pensive way, And soothe the solitary lover's pain; But now!—such evils in my lot combine, As shut my languid sense, to Hope's dear voice and thine.

SONNET LVI. The Captive escaped in the Wilds of America. Addressed to the Honourable Mrs. O'Neill.

IF by his torturing, savage foes untrac'd, The breathless Captive gain some trackless glade, Yet hears the warwhoop howl along the waste, And dreads the reptile monsters of the shade; The giant reeds that murmur round the flood, Seem to conceal some hideous form beneath; And every hollow blast that shakes the wood, Speaks to his trembling heart, of woe and death. With horror fraught, and desolate dismay, On such a wanderer falls the starless night; But if, far streaming, a propitious ray Leads to some amicable fort his sight, He hails the beam benign that guides his way, As I, my Harriet, bless thy friendship's cheering light.

SONNET LVII. To Dependence.

DEPENDENCE! heavy, heavy are thy chains, And happier they, who from the dangerous sea, Or the dark mine, procure with ceaseless pains A hard earn'd pittance—than who trust to thee! More blest the hind, who, from his bed of flock Starts! when the birds of morn their summons give, And waken'd by the lark, `the sheperd's clock', [ 7] Lives but to labour—labouring but to live. More noble than the sycophant, whose art Must heap with taudry flow'rs thy hated shrine; I envy not the meed thou canst impart To crown his service—while, tho' Pride combine With Fraud to crush me—my unfetter'd heart Still to the Mountain Nymph may offer mine. [ 14]

SONNET LVIII. The Glow Worm.

WHEN, on some balmy breathing night of Spring, The happy child, to whom the world is new, Pursues the evening moth, of mealy wing, Or from the heathbell beats the sparkling dew; He sees before his inexperienc'd eyes, The brilliant Glow Worm, like a meteor, shine On the turf bank;—amaz'd and pleas'd he cries `Star of the dewy grass!—I make thee mine!'. [ 8] Then, ere he sleep, collects `the moisten'd' flow'r, [ 9] And bids soft leaves his glittering prize enfold, And dreams that fairy lamps illume his bow'r: Yet with the morning, shudders to behold His lucid treasure, rayless as the dust; So turn the world's bright joys, to cold and blank disgust.

SONNET LIX. Written during a Thunder Storm, September, 1791; in which the Moon was perfectly clear, while the Tempest gathered in various directions near the Earth.

WHAT awful pageants croud the evening sky! The low horizon gath'ring vapours shroud, Sudden, from many a deep embattled cloud, Terrific thunders burst and light'nings fly— While in serenest azure, beaming high, Night's regent—of her calm pavilion proud, Gilds the dark shadows that beneath her lie, Unvex'd by all their conflicts fierce and loud— So, in unsullied dignity elate, A spirit conscious of superior worth, In placid elevation firmly great, Scorns the vain cares that give Contention birth; And blest with peace above the shocks of Fate, Smiles at the tumult of the troubled earth.