happy Bard!—to wake thy silent lyre
Our British Muse, our charming Seward, deigns!—
With more harmonious tones, more sportive fire
Beneath her hand arise the potent strains.

Then, as thou hear'st the sweet Enthusiast, own
Thy fancy's various florets look'd less gay
When kiss'd by bright Italia's ardent sun,
Than now their hues expand in Albion's milder ray!

H. F. CAREY.

SONNETS.

SONNET I.

When Life's realities the Soul perceives
    Vain, dull, perchance corrosive, if she glows
    With rising energy, and open throws
    The golden gates of Genius, she achieves
His fairy clime delighted, and receives
    In those gay paths, deck'd with the thornless rose,
    Blest compensation.—Lo! with alter'd brows
    Lours the false World, and the fine Spirit grieves;
No more young Hope tints with her light and bloom
    The darkening Scene.—Then to ourselves we say,
    Come, bright Imagination, come! relume
Thy orient lamp; with recompensing ray
    Shine on the Mind, and pierce its gathering gloom
    With all the fires of intellectual Day!

SONNET II.

The Future, and its gifts, alone we prize,
    Few joys the Present brings, and those alloy'd;
    Th' expected fulness leaves an aching void;
    But Hope stands by, and lifts her sunny eyes
That gild the days to come.—She still relies
    The Phantom Happiness not thus shall glide
    Always from life.—Alas!—yet ill betide
    Austere Experience, when she coldly tries
In distant roses to discern the thorn!
    Ah! is it wise to anticipate our pain?
    Arriv'd, it then is soon enough to mourn.
Nor call the dear Consoler false and vain,
    When yet again, shining through april-tears,
    Those fair enlight'ning eyes beam on advancing Years.

SONNET III.

WRITTEN AT BUXTON IN A RAINY SEASON.

From these wild heights, where oft the mists descend
    In rains, that shroud the sun, and chill the gale,
    Each transient, gleaming interval we hail,
    And rove the naked vallies, and extend
Our gaze around, where yon vast mountains blend
    With billowy clouds, that o'er their summits sail;
    Pondering, how little Nature's charms befriend
    The barren scene, monotonous, and pale.
Yet solemn when the darkening shadows fleet
    Successive o'er the wide and silent hills,
    Gilded by watry sun-beams, then we meet
Peculiar pomp of vision. Fancy thrills,
    And owns there is no scene so rude and bare,
    But Nature sheds or grace or grandeur there.

SONNET IV.

TO
HONORA SNEYD[1],
WHOSE HEALTH WAS ALWAYS BEST IN WINTER.

And now the youthful, gay, capricious Spring,
    Piercing her showery clouds with crystal light,
    And with their hues reflected streaking bright
    Her radiant bow, bids all her Warblers sing;
The Lark, shrill caroling on soaring wing;
    The lonely Thrush, in brake, with blossoms white,
    That tunes his pipe so loud; while, from the sight
    Coy bending their dropt heads, young Cowslips fling
Rich perfume o'er the fields.—It is the prime
    Of Hours that Beauty robes:—yet all they gild,
    Cheer, and delight in this their fragrant time,
For thy dear sake, to me less pleasure yield
    Than, veil'd in sleet, and rain, and hoary rime,
    Dim Winter's naked hedge and plashy field.

May 1770.

SONNET V.

TO A
FRIEND,
WHO THINKS SENSIBILITY A MISFORTUNE.

Ah, thankless! canst thou envy him who gains
    The Stoic's cold and indurate repose?
    Thou! with thy lively sense of bliss and woes!—
    From a false balance of life's joys and pains
Thou deem'st him happy.—Plac'd 'mid fair domains,
    Where full the river down the valley flows,
    As wisely might'st thou wish thy home had rose
    On the parch'd surface of unwater'd plains,
For that, when long the heavy rain descends,
    Bursts over guardian banks their whelming tide!—
    Seldom the wild and wasteful Flood extends,
But, spreading plenty, verdure, beauty wide,
    The cool translucent Stream perpetual bends,
    And laughs the Vale as the bright waters glide.

SONNET VI.

WRITTEN AT LICHFIELD,
IN AN EASTERN APARTMENT OF THE BISHOP'S PALACE,
WHICH COMMANDS A VIEW OF STOW VALLEY.

In this chill morning of a wintry Spring
    I look into the gloom'd and rainy vale;
    The sullen clouds, the stormy winds assail,
    Lour on the fields, and with impetuous wing
Disturb the lake:—but Love and Memory cling
    To their known scene, in this cold influence pale;
    Yet priz'd, as when it bloom'd in Summer's gale,
    Ting'd by his setting sun.—When Sorrows fling,
Or slow Disease, thus, o'er some beauteous Form
    Their shadowy languors, Form, devoutly dear
    As thine to me, Honora, with more warm
And anxious gaze the eyes of Love sincere
    Bend on the charms, dim in their tintless snow,
    Than when with health's vermilion hues they glow.

SONNET VII.

By Derwent's rapid stream as oft I stray'd,
    With Infancy's light step and glances wild,
    And saw vast rocks, on steepy mountains pil'd,
    Frown o'er th' umbrageous glen; or pleas'd survey'd
The cloudy moonshine in the shadowy glade,
    Romantic Nature to th' enthusiast Child
    Grew dearer far than when serene she smil'd,
    In uncontrasted loveliness array'd.
But O! in every Scene, with sacred sway,
    Her graces fire me; from the bloom that spreads
    Resplendent