and mind Are all one harmony.
Along my shivering nerves The mingled raptures thrill, And strangely take my soul, And rule it as they will;
True to the magic force, That shifts a thousand ways, An echo, and a shade, It answers and obeys.
But ah! the charm expires.— Did Fancy thus deceive? She smiles, and fondly vain, Would have me so believe.
SONNET,
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ON TAKING A FAVOURITE WALK, AFTER
RECOVERY FROM SICKNESS.
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Ye scenes beloved! O welcome once again! Forbidden long to my desiring sight, Now, now! triumphant o'er disease and pain, I visit ye with fresh, increased delight.
Vine-mantled Hills, whose heights I joy'd to climb, The Morn's sweet infant breathings to inhale; River! whose banks I roved in trance sublime, While fancy-whispering Eve spread soft her veil;
And thou, O Wood, in whose moon-checkered shade The nightly songstress oft has charm'd my ear Till Morning told me I so long had stay'd: Hail all ye objects to my memory dear! Once more, to feel the transports ye impart, Health wakes my every sense and tunes my heart.
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SONNET,
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WRITTEN ON MY BIRTH DAY.
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Again has Time his annual circle run, And April ushers in my natal day: Since first my infant eyes beheld the sun, How many a year has swiftly roll'd away! Full half my thread of life the Fates have spun; What various colours does the web display! Some dark, some brighter; ere the work be done The sadder hues will overshade the gay. Yet not to Melancholy will I yield; Against Despondency and Discontent Still Fortitude and Hope shall keep the field; Swerving from thee, O Virtue! I repent; Now! to repel Temptation I am steel'd; To follow thee I'm resolutely bent.
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ECLOGUE.
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SPRING.
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Muse of the pastoral reed and sylvan reign, Divine inspirer of each tuneful swain, Who taught the Doric Shepherd to portray Primeval nature in his simple lay; And him of Mantua, in a nicer age, To form the graces of his artful page; O, come! where crystal Avon winds serene, And with thy presence bless the brightening scene; Now, while I rove his willowy banks along, With fond intent to wake the rural song, Inspire me, Goddess! to my strains impart The force of nature, and the grace of art.
Now has the Night her dusky veil withdrawn, And, softly blushing, peeps the smiling Dawn; The lark, on quivering wings, amid the skies Pours his shrill song, inviting her to rise; The breathing Zephyrs just begin to play, Waking the flowers to steal new sweets away: And now with trembling steps, her swain to find, Fair Delia hastens to the spot assign'd: Her faithful Colin waits impatient there; How raptured to regain his long-lost fair! COLIN. O happiness!—and am I then so blest? Or does a heavenly dream possess my breast? Has not her father sternly bid us part, And for my rival claim'd his daughter's heart? Has not my Delia sigh'd the sad adieu? Have I not long been banish'd from her view? Away, ye jealous fears! ye sorrows, flee! This letter, this! revokes the dire decree. And lo! she comes! she comes! but why so slow, Pensive, and shy, as if oppress'd with wo? My Delia!— DELIA. Colin! (They embrace.) COLIN. O my Delia! tell, What dark ideas in thy bosom dwell. Is not thy letter true? then give thy soul To love and happiness without control. DELIA. O generous Colin! can'st thou, then, forget The painful past, and love thy Delia yet? Deem me not faithless; stern parental sway, Spite of my tears, constrained me to obey. COLIN. Faithless? O no! I knew thy father's ire; Thy filial virtue could not but admire; Still did I hope, believe, and know thee true: The pains I suffer'd thou did'st suffer too. Now weep no more; this bids our sufferings cease, This letter—heavenly messenger of
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