SONNETS.

1816.

I.

OH! how I love, on a fair summer's eve,

When streams of light pour down the golden west, And on the balmy zephyrs tranquil rest The silver clouds, far-far away to leave All meaner thoughts, and take a sweet reprieve From little cares; to find, with easy quest, A fragrant wild, with Nature's beauty drest, And there into delight my soul deceive. There warm my breast with patriotic lore,

Musing on Milton's fate-on Sydney's bierTill their stern forms before my mind arise: Perhaps on wing of Poesy upsoar,

Full often dropping a delicious tear,

When some melodious sorrow spells mine eyes.

II.

TO A YOUNG LADY WHO SENT ME A LAUREL CROWN.

FRESH morning gusts have blown away all fear
From my glad bosom,-now from gloominess
I mount for ever-not an atom less
Than the proud laurel shall content my bier.
No! by the eternal stars! or why sit here
In the Sun's eye, and 'gainst my temples press
Apollo's very leaves, woven to bless

By thy white fingers and thy spirit clear.

Lo! who dares say, "Do this?" Who dares call down
My will from its high purpose? Who say, "Stand,"
Or "Go?" This mighty moment I would frown
On abject Cæsars-not the stoutest band

Of mailed heroes should tear off my crown:

Yet would I kneel and kiss thy gentle hand!

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III.

Jan. 1817.

AFTER dark vapours have oppress'd our plains
For a long dreary season, comes a day
Born of the gentle South, and clears away
From the sick heavens all unseemly stains.
The anxious mouth, relieved from its pains,

Takes as a long-lost right the feel of May,
The eyelids with the passing coolness play,
Like rose leaves with the drip of summer rains.
And calmest thoughts come round us—as, of leaves
Budding, fruit ripening in stillness,―autumn suns
Smiling at eve upon the quiet sheaves,-

Sweet Sappho's cheek,-a sleeping infant's breath,— The gradual sand that through an hour-glass runs,A woodland rivulet,-a Poet's death.

I12.

IV.

WRITTEN ON THE BLANK SPACE OF A LEAF AT THE END OF

CHAUCER'S TALE OF 66 THE FLOWRE AND THE LEFE."

Feb. 1817.

THIS pleasant tale is like a little copse:
The honied lines so freshly interlace,
To keep the reader in so sweet a place,
So that he here and there full-hearted stops;
And oftentimes he feels the dewy drops

Come cool and suddenly against his face,
And, by the wandering melody, may trace
Which way the tender-legged linnet hops.
Oh! what a power has white simplicity!
What mighty power has this gentle story!
I, that do ever feel athirst for glory,

Could at this moment be content to lie

Meekly upon the grass, as those whose sobbings
Were heard of none beside the mournful robins.

V.

ON THE SEA.

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Ir keeps eternal whisperings around

Aug. 1817.

Desolate shores, and with its mighty swell Gluts twice ten thousand caverns, till the spell Of Hecate leaves them their old shadowy sound. Often 'tis in such gentle temper found,

That scarcely will the

very smallest shell

Be moved for days from where it sometime fell,
When last the winds of heaven were unbound.
Oh ye! who have your eye-balls vexed and tired,
Feast them upon the wideness of the Sea;
Oh ye! whose ears are dinn'd with uproar rude,
Or fed too much with cloying melody,—

Sit ye near some old cavern's mouth, and brood
Until ye start, as if the sea-nymphs quired!