smiles, as here she smiles,
    'Mid verdant vales, and gently swelling hills,
    And glassy lakes, and mazy, murmuring rills,
And narrow wood-wild lanes, her spell beguiles
    Th' impatient sighs of Grief, and reconciles
    Poetic Minds to Life, with all her ills.

May 1774.

SONNET XVI.

TRANSLATED FROM BOILEAU.

Apollo, at his crowded altars, tir'd
    Of Votaries, who for trite ideas thrown
    Into loose verse, assume, in lofty tone,
    The Poet's name, untaught, and uninspir'd,
Indignant struck the Lyre.—Straight it acquir'd
    New powers, and complicate. Then first was known
    The rigorous Sonnet, to be fram'd alone
    By duteous Bards, or by just Taste admir'd.—
Go, energetic Sonnet, go, he cried,
    And be the test of skill!—For rhymes that flow
    Regardless of thy rules, their destin'd guide,
Yet take thy name, ah! let the boasters know
    That with strict sway my jealous laws preside,
    While I no wreaths on rebel verse bestow.

SONNET XVII.

Ah! why have I indulg'd my dazzled sight
    With scenes in Hope's delusive mirror shown?
    Scenes, that too seldom human Life has known
    In kind accomplishment;—but O! how bright
The rays, that gilded them with varied light
    Alternate! oft swift flashing on the boon
    That might at Fame's immortal shrine be won;
    Then shining soft on tender Love's delight.—
Now, with stern hand, Fate draws the sable veil
    O'er the frail glass!—Hope, as she turns away,
    The darken'd crystal drops.——Heavy and pale,
Rain-pouring clouds quench all the darts of day;
    Low mourns the wind along the gloomy dale,
    And tolls the Death-bell in the pausing gale.

SONNET XVIII.

AN EVENING IN NOVEMBER,
WHICH HAD BEEN STORMY, GRADUALLY CLEARING UP,
IN A MOUNTAINOUS COUNTRY.

Ceas'd is the rain; but heavy drops yet fall
    From the drench'd roof;—yet murmurs the sunk wind
    Round the dim hills; can yet a passage find
    Whistling thro' yon cleft rock, and ruin'd wall.
The swoln and angry torrents heard, appal,
    Tho' distant.—A few stars, emerging kind,
    Shed their green, trembling beams.—With lustre small,
    The moon, her swiftly-passing clouds behind,
Glides o'er that shaded hill.—Now blasts remove
    The shadowing clouds, and on the mountain's brow,
    Full-orb'd, she shines.—Half sunk within its cove
Heaves the lone boat, with gulphing sound;—and lo!
    Bright rolls the settling lake, and brimming rove
    The vale's blue rills, and glitter as they flow.

SONNET XIX.

TO ——.

Farewell, false Friend!—our scenes of kindness close!
    To cordial looks, to sunny smiles farewell!
    To sweet consolings, that can grief expel,
    And every joy soft sympathy bestows!
For alter'd looks, where truth no longer glows,
    Thou hast prepar'd my heart;—and it was well
    To bid thy pen th' unlook'd for story tell,
    Falsehood avow'd, that shame, nor sorrow knows.—
O! when we meet,—(to meet we're destin'd, try
    To avoid it as thou may'st) on either brow,
    Nor in the stealing consciousness of eye,
Be seen the slightest trace of what, or how
    We once were to each other;—nor one sigh
    Flatter with weak regret a broken vow!

SONNET XX.

ON READING A DESCRIPTION OF POPE's GARDENS
AT TWICKENHAM.

Ah! might I range each hallow'd bower and glade
    Musæus cultur'd, many a raptur'd sigh
    Wou'd that dear, local consciousness supply
    Beneath his willow, in the grotto's shade,
Whose roof his hand with ores and shells inlaid.
    How sweet to watch, with reverential eye,
    Thro' the sparr'd arch, the streams he oft survey'd,
    Thine, blue Thamésis, gently wandering by!
This is the Poet's triumph, and it towers
    O'er Life's pale ills, his consciousness of powers
    That lift his memory from Oblivion's gloom,
Secure a train of these heart-thrilling hours
    By his idea deck'd in rapture's bloom,
    For Spirits rightly touch'd, thro' ages yet to come.

SONNET XXI.

Proud of our lyric Galaxy, I hear
    Of faded Genius with supreme disdain;
    As when we see the Miser bend insane
    O'er his full coffers, and in accents drear
Deplore imagin'd want;—and thus appear
    To me those moody Censors, who complain,
    As [1]Shaftsbury plain'd in a now boasted reign,
    That “Poesy had left our darken'd sphere.”
Whence may the present stupid dream be traced
    That now she shines not as in days foregone?
    Perchance neglected, often shine in waste
Her Lights, from number into confluence run,
    More than when thinly in th' horizon placed
    Each Orb shone separate, and appear'd a Sun.