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Sweet is the lucid morning's op'ning flow'r,
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!
SONNET TO THE MOON.
Queen of the silver bow! by thy pale beam,
And while I gaze, thy mild and placid light
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!
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?
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,
SONNET TO NIGHT.
I love thee, mournful sober suited night,
SONNET TO TRANQUILLITY.
O beauteous sister of the halcyon peace!
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.
SONNET, WRITTEN AT PENTHURST, IN AUTUMN,