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Sweet is the lucid morning's op'ning flow'r,
Her coral melodies benignly rise ;
Yet dearer to my soul the shadowy hour,
At which ber blossoms close, her music dies :
For then mild nature, while she droops her bead,
Wakes the soft tear 'lis luxury to shed.

Miss Williams.

SONNET TO HOPE. 0, EVER skill'd to wear the form we love! To bid the shapes of fear and grief depart, Come, gentle Hope! with one gay smile remove The lasting sadness of an aching heart; Thy voice, benign enchantress! let me hear; Say that for me some pleasures yet shall bloom! That fancy's radiance, friendship’s precious tear, Shall soften, or shall chase, misfortune's gloom.But come not glowing in the dazzling ray Which once with dear illusions charm d my eye! O strew no more, sweet flatterer! on my way The flow'rs I fondly thought too bright to die. Visions less fair will sooth my pensive breast, That asks not happiness, but longs for rest!

Miss Williams.

SONNET 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 sufferers 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.
0! that I soon may reach thy world serene,
Poor wearied pilgrim-in this toiling scene!

Charlotte Smith.

SONNET ON'THE DEPARTURE OF THE NIGHTIN

GALE. SWEET poet of the woods—a long adieu ! Farewell, soft minstrel of the early year! Ah! 'twill be long ere thou shalt sing anew, And pour thy music on the night's dull ear.' Whether on spring thy wandering flights await, Or whether silent in our groves you dwell, The pensive Muse shall own thee for her mate, And still protect the song she loves so well. With cautious step the love-lorn youth shall glide Through 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!

Charlotte Smith.

SONNET WRITTEN AT THE CLOSE OF SPRING. The garlands fade that Spring so lately wove, Each simple flow'r which she has nurs'd in dew, Anemonies, that spangled every grove, The primrose wan, and hare-bell 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?

Charlotte Smith.

SONNET, SHOULD THE LONE WANDERER. Should the lone wanderer, fainting on his way, Rest for a moment of the sultry hours, (lay, And though his path through thorus and roughness Pluck the wild rose, or woodbine's gadding flow'rs, Weaving gay wreaths, beneath some sheltering 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 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.

Charlotte Smith.

SONNET TO NIGHT.

I love thee, mournful sober suited night,
When the faint Moon, yet lingering in her wane,
Aød veil'd in clouds, with pale uncertain light
Hangs o’er the waters of the restless main.
In deep depression sunk, th' enfeebled miud
Will to the deaf, cold elements complain,
And tell th’ embosom'd grief, however vain,
To sullen surges and the viewless wind:
Though po 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, though wretched; hopeless, yet resign’d:
While to the winds and waves its sorrows given,
May reach—though lost on Earth—the ear of
Heaven !

Charlotte Smith.

SONNET 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 slumberers easy lie,
Or sometimes hanging o'er the bed of death,
Where the poor languid sufferer hopes to die.

O beauteous sister of the halcyon peace!
I sure shall find thee in that heavenly scene
Where care and anguish shall their power resign;
Where hope alike, and vain regret shall cease;
And Memory, lost in happiness serene,
Repeat no more-that misery has been mine!

Charlotte Smith.

SONNET, WRITTEN IN THE CHURCHYARD AT

MIDDLETON IN SUSSEX. PRESS'D by the Moon, mute arbitress of tides, While the lond equinox its power combines, The sea no more its swelling surge confines, But o'er the shrinking land sublimely rides. The wild blast, rising from the western cave, Drives the huge billows from their heaving bed; Tears from their grassy tombs the village dead, And breaks the silent sabbath of the grave! With shells and sea-weed 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 oppressid, To gaze with envy on their gloomy rest.

Charlotte Smith.

SONNET, WRITTEN AT PENTHURST, IN AUTUMN,

1788.
Ye tow'rs sublime, deserted now and drear,
Ye woods, deep sighing to the hollow blast,
The musing wanderer loves to linger near,
While history points to all your glories past :

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