SONNET XLI.

1: This Sonnet was written in an Apartment of the West Front of the Bishop's Palace at Lichfield, inhabited by the Author from her thirteenth year. It looks upon the Cathedral-Area, a green Lawn encircled by Prebendal Houses, which are white from being rough-cast.

INVITATION TO A FRIEND.

Since dark December shrouds the transient day,And stormy Winds are howling in their ire,Why com'st notTHOU, who always can'st inspireThe soul of cheerfulness, and best arrayA sullen hour in smiles?—O haste to payThe cordial visit sullen hours require!—Around the circling walls a glowing fireShines;—but it vainly shines in this delayTo blend thy spirit's warm Promethean light.Come then, at Science', and at Friendship's call,Their vow'd Disciple;—come, for they invite!The social Powers without thee languish all.Come, that I may not hear the winds of Night,Nor count the heavy eave-drops as they fall.

Dec. 21st, 1782.

Lo! theYear'sfinal Day!—Nature performsIts obsequies with darkness, wind, and rain;But Man is jocund.—Hark! th' exultant strainFrom towers and steeples drowns the wintry storms!No village spire but to the cots and farms,Right merrily, its scant and tuneless pealRings round!—Ah! joy ungrateful!—mirth insane!Wherefore the senseless triumph, ye, who feelThis annual portion of brief Life the whileDepart for ever?—Brought it no dear hoursOf health and night-rest?—none that saw the smileOn lips belov'd?—O! with as gentle powersWill the next pass?—Ye pause!—yet careless hearStrike these last Clocks, that knell th'expiring Year!

Dec. 31st, 1782.

TO MAY, IN THE YEAR 1783.

My memory, long accustom'd to receiveIn deep-engraven lines, each varying traitPast Times and Seasons wore, can find no dateThro' many years, O!May, when thou hadst leave,As now, of the greatSun, serene to weaveThy fragrant chaplets; in poetic stateTo call the jocund Hours on thee to wait,Bringing each day, at morn, at noon, at eve,His mild illuminations.—Nymph, no moreIs thine to mourn beneath the scanty shadeOf half-blown foliage, shivering to deploreThy garlands immature, thy rites unpaid;Meads dropt with[1]gold again to thee belong,Soft gales, luxuriant bowers, and wood-land song.

1: Kingcups.

RaptContemplation, bring thy waking dreamsTo this umbrageous vale at noon-tide hour,While full oftheeseems every bending flower,Whose petals tremble o'er the shadow'd streams!Give thouHonora's image, when her beams,Youth, beauty, kindness, shone;—what time she woreThat smile, of gentle, yet resistless powerTo sooth each painful Passion's wild extremes.Here shall no empty, vain Intruder chase,With idle converse, thy enchantment warm,That brings, in all its interest, all its grace,The dear, persuasive, visionary Form.Can real Life a rival blessing boastWhen thou canst thus restoreHonoraearly lost?

[1]From Possibility's dim chaos sprung,High o'er its gloom the Aërostatic PowerArose!—Exulting Nations hail'd the hour,Magnific boast of Science!—Loud they sungHer victory o'er the element, that hung,Pressing to earth the Beings, who now soarAerial heights;—but Wisdom bids exploreThis vaunted skill;—if, tides of air among,We know tosteerour bark.—Here Science findsHer buoyant hopes burst, like the bubble vain,Type of this art;—guilty, if still she blindsThe sense of Fear; persists thy flame to fan,Sky-vaulting Pride, that to the aweless windsThrows, for an idle Show, theLife of Man!

1: This Sonnet was written when the Balloon enthusiasm was at its height.

Dark as the silent stream beneath the night,Thy funeral glides to Life's eternal home,Child of its narrow house!—how late the bloom,The facile smile, the soft eye's crystal light,Each grace of Youth's gay morn, that charms our sight,Play'd o'er that Form!—now sunk in Death's cold gloom,Insensate! ghastly!—for the yawning tomb,Alas! fit Inmate.—Thus we mourn the blightOf Virgin-Beauty, and endowments rareIn their glad hours of promise.—O! when AgeDrops, like the o'er-blown, faded rose, tho' dearIts long known worth, no stormy sorrows rage;But swell when we behold, unsoil'd by time,Youth's broken Lily perished in its prime.

ON MR. SARGENT's DRAMATIC POEM,THE MINE[1].

With lyre Orphean, see a Bard exploreThe central caverns of the mornless Night,Where never Muse perform'd harmonious riteTill now!—and lo! upon the sparry floor,Advance, to welcome him, each Sister Power,Petra, stern Queen, Fossilia, cold and bright,And call their Gnomes, to marshal in his sightThe gelid incrust, and the veined ore,And flashing gem.—Then, while his songs pourtrayThe mystic virtues gold and gems acquire,With every charm that mineral scenes display,Th' imperial Sisters praise the daring Lyre,And grateful hail its new and powerful lay,That seats them high amid the Muses' Choir.

1: Petra, and Fossilia, are Personifications of the first and last division of the Fossil Kingdom. The Author of this beautiful Poem supposes the Gnomes to be Spirits of the Mine, performing the behests of Petra and Fossilia, as the Sylphs, Gnomes, Salamanders, &c. appear as Handmaids of the Nymph of Botany in that exquisite sport of Imagination,the Botanic Garden.

Now young-ey'd Spring, on gentle breezes borne,'Mid the deep woodlands, hills, and vales, and bowers,Unfolds her leaves, her blossoms, and her flowers,Pouring their soft luxuriance on the morn.O! how unlike the wither'd, wan, forlorn,And limping Winter, that o'er russet moors,Grey ridgy fields, and ice-incrusted shores,Strays!—and commands his rising Winds to mourn.Protracted Life, thou art ordain'd to wearAformlike his; and, shou'd thy gifts be mine,I tremble lest a kindred influence drearSteal on my mind;—but pious Hope benign,The Soul's bright day-spring, shall avert the fear,And gild Existence in her dim decline.

ON THE USE OF NEW AND OLD WORDS IN POETRY.

While with false pride, and narrow jealousy,Numbers reject each new expression, won,Perchance, from language richer than our own,O! with glad welcome may thePoetseeExtension's golden vantage! the decreeEach way exclusive, scorn, and re-enthroneThe obsolete, if strength, or grace of toneOr imagery await it, with a free,And liberal daring!—For the Critic Train,Whose eyes severe our verbal stores review,Let the firm Bard require that they explainTheircauseof censure; then in balance trueWeigh it; but smile at the objections vainOf sickly Spirits, hatingfor they do[1]!

1: The particleforis used in the same sense withbecause, by Shakespear, and Beaumont and Fletcher.“But she, and I, were Creatures innocent,Lov'dforwedid.”Bea.andFle. Two Noble Kinsmen.“——Nor must you thinkI will your serious and great business scantForshe is with me.”Othello.“They're jealousforthey're jealous.”Othello.

1: The particleforis used in the same sense withbecause, by Shakespear, and Beaumont and Fletcher.

“But she, and I, were Creatures innocent,Lov'dforwedid.”Bea.andFle. Two Noble Kinsmen.

“——Nor must you thinkI will your serious and great business scantForshe is with me.”Othello.

“They're jealousforthey're jealous.”Othello.

In every breast Affection fires, there dwellsA secret consciousness to what degreeThey are themselves belov'd.—We hourly seeTh' involuntary proof, that either quells,Or ought to quell false hopes,—or sets us freeFrom pain'd distrust;—but, O, the misery!Weak Self-Delusion timidly repelsThe lights obtrusive—shrinks from all that tellsUnwelcome truths, and vainly seeks reposeFor startled Fondness, in the opiate balm,Of kind profession, tho', perchance, it flowsTo hush Complaint—O! in Belief's clear calm,Or 'mid the lurid clouds of Doubt, we findLoverise the Sun, or Comet of the Mind.

TOSYLVIAON HER APPROACHING NUPTIALS.

Hope comes toYouth, gliding thro' azure skiesWith amaranth crown:—her full robe, snowy white,Floats on the gale, and our exulting sightMarks it afar.—FromwaningLife she flies,Wrapt in a mist, covering her starry eyesWith her fair hand.—But now, in floods of light,She meets thee,Sylvia, and with glances, brightAs lucid streams, when Spring's clear mornings rise.From Hymen's kindling torch, a yellow rayThe shining texture of her spotless vestGilds;—and the Month that gives the early dayThe scent odōrous[1], and the carol blest,Pride of the rising Year, enamour'dMay,Paints its redundant folds with florets gay.

1:Odōrous.Milton, in the Par. Lost, gives the lengthened and harmonious accent to that word, rather than the short, andcommonone, ōdorous:——“the bright consummate flowerSpirit odōrous breathes.”

1:Odōrous.Milton, in the Par. Lost, gives the lengthened and harmonious accent to that word, rather than the short, andcommonone, ōdorous:

——“the bright consummate flowerSpirit odōrous breathes.”

Long has the pall of Midnight quench'd the scene,And wrapt the hush'd horizon.—All around,In scatter'd huts, Labor, in sleep profound,Lies stretch'd, and rosy Innocence sereneSlumbers;—but creeps, with pale and starting mien,BenightedSuperstition.—Fancy-found,The late self-slaughter'd Man, in earth yet greenAnd festering, burst from his incumbent mound,Roams!—and the Slave of Terror thinks he hearsA mutter'd groan!—sees the sunk eye, that glaresAs shoots the Meteor.—But no more forlornHe strays;—the Spectre sinks into his tomb!Fornowthe jocund Herald of the MornClaps his bold wings, and sounds along the gloom[1].

1: “It faded at the crowing of the cock.”Hamlet.

WRITTEN IN THE SPRING 1785 ON THE DEATH OF THEPOET LAUREAT.

The knell ofWhiteheadtolls!—his cares are past,The hapless tribute of his purchas'd lays,His servile, his Egyptian tasks of praise!—If not sublime his strains, Fame justly plac'dTheir power above their work.—Now, with wide gazeOf much indignant wonder, she surveysTo the life-labouring oar assiduous hasteA glowing Bard, by every Muse embrac'd.—O,Warton! chosen Priest of Phœbus' choir!Shall thy rapt song be venal? hymn theThrone,Whether its edicts just applause inspire,OrPatriot Virtueview them with a frown?What needs forthisthe golden-stringed Lyre,The snowy Tunic, and the Sun-bright Zone[1]!

1: Ensigns of Apollo's Priesthood.

A PERSIAN KING TO HIS SON.

FROM A PROSE TRANSLATION IN SIR WILLIAM JONES' ESSAYON THE POETRY OF THE EASTERN NATIONS.

Guard thou, my Son, the Helpless and the Poor,Nor in the chains of thine own indolenceSlumber enervate, while the joys of senseEngross thee; and thou say'st, “I ask no more.”—WiseMen the Shepherd's slumber will deploreWhen the rapacious Wolf has leapt the fence,And ranges thro' the fold.—My Son, dispenseThose laws, that justice to the Wrong'd restore.—The Common-Weal shou'd be the first pursuitOf the crown'd Warrior, for the royal browsThe People first enwreath'd.—They are the Root,The King the Tree. Aloft he spreads his boughsGlorious; but learn, impetuous Youth, at length,Trees from the Root alone derive their strength.

ON THE QUICK TRANSITION FROM WINTER TO SUMMERIN THE YEAR 1785.

Loud blew the North thro' April's pallid days,Nor grass the field, nor leaves the grove obtains,Nor crystal sun-beams, nor the gilded rains,That bless the hours of promise, gently raiseWarmth in the blood, without that fiery blaze,Which makes it boil along the throbbing veins.—Albion, displeas'd, her own lov'd Spring surveysPassing, with volant step, o'er russet plains;Sees her to Summer's fierce embraces speed,Pale, and unrobed.—Faithless! thou well may'st hideClose in his sultry breast thy recreant head,That did'st, neglecting thy distinguish'd Isle,In Winter's icy arms so long abide,While Britain vainly languish'd for thy smile!

TO A TIMID YOUNG LADY,DISTRESSED BY THE ATTENTIONS OF AN AMIABLE, ANDACCEPTEDLOVER.

What bashful wildness in those crystal eyes,Fair Zillia!—Ah! more dear toLovethe gazeThatdwellsupon its object, than the raysOf that vague glance, quick, as in summer skiesThe lightning's lambent flash, when neither riseThunder, nor storm.—I mark, while transport playsWarm in thy Lover's eye, what dread betraysThy throbbing heart:—yet why from his soft sighsFleet'st thou so swift away?—like the young Hind[1],That bending stands the fountain's brim beside,When, with a sudden gust, the western windRustles among the boughs that shade the tide:See, from the stream, innoxious and benign,Starting she bounds, with terror vain as thine!

1: “Vitas hinnuleo me similis Chloe.”Horace.

WRITTEN THE NIGHT PRECEDING THE[1]FUNERAL OFMRS. CHARLES BUCKERIDGE.

In the chill silence of the winter eve,Thro' Lichfield's darken'd streets I bend my wayBy that sad mansion, whereNerina's ClayAwaits theMorning Knell;—and awed perceive,In the late bridal chamber, the clear rayOf numerous lights; while o'er the ceiling strayShadows of those who frequent pass beneathRound thepale Dead.—What sounds my senses grieve!For now the busy hammer's stroke appals,That, “in dread note of preparation,” falls,Closing the sable lid!—With sighs I bearThese solemn warnings from the House of Woes;Pondering how late, for youngNerina, there,Joyous, the Love-illumin'd Morn arose.

1: In Lichfield Cathedral the funeral rites are performed early in the Morning.

Not the slow Hearse, where nod the sable plumes,The Parian Statue, bending o'er the Urn,The dark robe floating, the dejection wornOn the dropt eye, and lip no smile illumes;Not all this pomp of sorrow, that presumesIt pays Affection's debt, is due concernTo theFOR EVER ABSENT, tho' it mournFashion's allotted time. If Time consumes,While Life is ours, the precious vestal-flameMemory shou'd hourly feed;—if, thro' each day,She with whate'er we see, hear, think, or say,Blend not the image of the vanish'd Frame,O! can the alien Heart expect to prove,In worlds of light and life, a reunited love!

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLELADY MARIANNE CARNEGIE,passing her winters at Ethic House on the Coast of Scotland, with her Father, Lord Northesk, who retired thither after the death of his excellent Countess.

WRITTEN FEBRUARY 1787.

Lady, each soft effusion of thy mind,Flowing thro' thy free pen, shows thee endu'dWith taste so just for all of wise, and good,As bids me hope thy spirit does not find,Young as thou art, with solitude combin'dThat wish of change, that irksome lassitude,Which often, thro' unvaried days, obtrudeOn Youth's rash bosom, dangerously inclin'dTo pant for more than peace.—Rich volumes yieldTheir soul-endowing wealth.—Beyond e'en theseShall consciousness of filial duty gildThe gloomy hours, when Winter's turbid SeasRoar round the rocks; when the dark Tempest lours,And mourn the Winds round Ethic's lonely towers.

Why view'st thou, Edwy, with disdainful mienThe little Naiad of the Downton Wave?High 'mid the rocks, where her clear waters laveThe circling, gloomy basin.—In such scene,Silent, sequester'd, few demand, I ween,Thatlastperfection Phidian chisels gave.Dimly the soft and musing Form is seenIn the hush'd, shelly, shadowy, lone concave.—As sleeps her pure, tho' darkling fountain there,I love to recollect her, stretch'd supineUpon its mossy brink, with pendent hair,As dripping o'er the flood.—Ah! well combineSuch gentle graces, modest, pensive, fair,To aid the magic of her watry shrine.

1: The above Sonnet was addressed to a Friend, who had fastidiously despised, because he did not think it exquisite sculpture, the Statue of a Water-Nymph in Mr. Knight's singular, and beautiful Cold Bath at Downton Castle near Ludlow. It rises amidst a Rotunda, formed by Rocks, and covered with shells, and fossils, in the highest elevation of that mountainous and romantic Scene.

TO MR. HENRY CARY[1],ON READING HIS SONNETS WRITTEN AT SIXTEEN.

Disciple of the bright Aonian MaidIn thy life's blossom, a resistless spellAmid the wild wood, and irriguous dell,O'er thymy hill, and thro' illumin'd glade,Led thee, for her thy votive wreaths to braid,Where flaunts the musk-rose, and the azure bellNods o'er loquacious brook, or silent well.—Thus woo'd her inspirations, their rapt aidLiberal she gave; nor only thro' thy strainBreath'd their pure spirit, while her charms beguil'dThe languid hours of Sorrow, and of Pain,But when Youth's tide ran high, and tempting smil'dCircean Pleasure, rescuing did she stand,Broke the Enchantress' cup and snapt her wand.

1: Then of Sutton Coldfield.

[1]Dim grows the vital flame in his dear breastFrom whom my life I drew;—and thrice has SpringBloom'd; and fierce Winter thrice, on darken'd wing,Howl'd o'er the grey, waste fields, since he possess'dOr strength of frame, or intellect.——Now bringNor Morn, nor Eve, his cheerful steps, that press'dThy pavement,Lichfield, in the spirit bless'dOf social gladness. They have fail'd, and clingFeebly to the fix'd chair, no more to riseElastic!—Ah! my heart forebodes that soonTheFULL OF DAYSshall sleep;—nor Spring's soft sighs,Nor Winter's blast awaken him!—BegunThe twilight!—Night is long!—but o'er his eyesLife-weary slumbers weigh the pale lids down!

1: When this Sonnet was written, the Subject of it had languished three years beneath repeated paralytic strokes, which had greatly enfeebled his limbs, and impaired his understanding. Contrary to all expectation he survived three more years, subject, through their progress, to the same frequent and dreadful attacks, though in their intervals he was serene and apparently free from pain or sickness.

TO COLEBROOKE DALE.

ThyGenius, Colebrooke, faithless to his charge,Amid thy woods and vales, thy rocks and streams,Form'd for the Train that haunt poetic dreams,Naiads, and Nymphs,—now hears the toiling BargeAnd the swart Cyclops ever-clanging forgeDin in thy dells;—permits the dark-red gleams,From umber'd fires on all thy hills, the beams,Solar and pure, to shroud with columns largeOf black sulphureous smoke, that spread their veilsLike funeral crape upon the sylvan robeOf thy romantic rocks, pollute thy gales,And stain thy glassy floods;—while o'er the globeTo spread thy stores metallic, this rude yellDrowns the wild woodland song, and breaks the Poet's spell.

TO MR. HENRY CARY,ON THE PUBLICATION OF HIS SONNETS.

Prais'd be the Poet, who the Sonnet's claim,Severest of the orders that belongDistinct and separate to the Delphic Song,Shall venerate, nor its appropriate nameLawless assume. Peculiar is its frame,From him deriv'd, who shunn'd the City Throng,And warbled sweet thy rocks and streams among,Lonely Valclusa!—and that Heir of Fame,Our greaterMilton, hath, by many a layForm'd on that arduous model, fully shownThat English Verse may happily displayThose strict energic measures, which aloneDeserve the name ofSonnet, and conveyA grandeur, grace and spirit, all their own.

TO THE SAME.

Marcellus, since the ardors of my strainTo thy young eyes and kindling fancy, gleamWith somewhat of the vivid hues, that streamFrom Poesy's bright orb, each envious stainShed by dull Critics, venal, vex'd and vain,Seems recompens'd at full;—and so wou'd seemDid notmaturerSons of Phœbus deemMy verse Aonian.—Thou, in time, shalt gain,Like them, amid the letter'd World,thatswayWhich makes encomiumfame;—so thou adorn,Extend, refine and dignify thy lay,And Indolence, and Syren Pleasure scorn;Then, at high noon, thy Genius shall displayThe splendors promis'd in its shining morn.

Nobly to scorn thy gilded veil to wear,Soft Simulation!—wisely to abstainFrom fostering Envy's asps;—to dash the baneFar from our hearts, which Hate, with frown severe,Extends for those who wrong us;—to revereWith soul, or grateful, or resign'd, the trainOf mercies, and of trials, is to gainA quiet Conscience, best of blessings here!—Calm Conscience is a land-encircled bay,On whose smooth surface Tempests never blow;Which shall the reflex of our life displayUnstain'd by crime, tho' gloom'd with transient woe;While the bright hopes of Heaven's eternal dayUpon the fair and silent waters glow.

ON DOCTOR JOHNSON'S UNJUST CRITICISMSIN HISLIVES OF THE POETS[1].

Cou'd aweful Johnson want poetic ear,Fancy, or judgment?—no! his splendid strain,In prose, or rhyme, confutes that plea.—The painWhich writh'd o'er Garrick's fortunes, shows us clearWhenceall his spleen toGenius.—Ill to bearA Friend's renown, that to hisownmust reign,Compar'd, a Meteor's evanescent train,To Jupiter's fix'd orb, proves that each sneer,Subtle and fatal to poetic Sense,Did from insidiousEnvymeanly flow,Illumed with dazzling hues of eloquence,And Sophist-Wit, that labor to o'er-throwTh' awards ofAges, and new laws dispenseThat lift themean, and lay theMIGHTYlow.

1: When Johnson's Idolaters are hard pressed concerning his injustice in thosefallaciousthoughablepages;—when they are reminded that he there tells us the perusal of Milton's Paradise Lost is atask, and never apleasure;—reminded also of his avowed contempt of that exquisite Poem, theLycidas;—of his declaration that Dryden's absurd Ode on the death of Mrs. Anne Killegrew, written in Cowley'sworstmanner, is thenoblestOde in this Language;—of his disdain ofGrayas alyricPoet; of the superior respect he pays toYalden,Blackmore, andPomfret;—When these things are urged, his Adorers seek to acquit him ofwilfulmisrepresentation by alledging that he wanted ear for lyric numbers, and taste for thehighergraces ofPoetry:—but it is impossible so to believe, when we recollect that even hisproseabounds with poetic efflorescence, metaphoric conception, and harmonious cadence, which in the highest degree adorn it, without diminishing its strength. We must look for the source of his injustice in the envy of his temper. When Garrick was named a Candidate for admission into the Literary Club, Dr. Johnson told Mr. Thrale he would black-ball him. “Who, Sir? Mr. Garrick! Companion of your Youth! your acknowledged Friend!” “Why, Sir, I love my little David better than any, or all of his Flatterers love him; but surely we ought to sit in a Society like ours, ‘unelbow'd by a Gamester, Pimp, orPlayer.” See Supplement to Dr. Johnson's Letters, published by Mrs. Piozzi. The blended hypocrisy and malice of this sally show the man. Johnson knew, at times, how to coax without sincerity as well as to abuse without justice. His seeming fondness for Mrs. C—— of Lichfield, on his visits to that City, and the contempt with which he spoke of her to her Townspeople, was another instance of the same nature.

ON THE POSTHUMOUS FAME OF DOCTOR JOHNSON.

Well it becomes thee, Britain, to avowJohnson's high claims!—yet boasting that his firesWere ofuncloudedlustre,TruthretiresBlushing, andJusticeknits her solemn brow;The eyes ofGratitudewithdraw the glowHis moral strain inspir'd.—Their zeal requiresThat thou should'st better guard the sacred Lyres,Sources of thy bright fame, than to bestowPerfection's wreath on him, whose ruthless hand,Goaded by jealous rage, the laurels tore,ThatJustice,Truth, andGratitudedemandShould deck those Lyres till Time shall be no more.—A radiant course did Johnson's Glory run,But large the spots that darken'd on its Sun.

TO A YOUNG LADY,PURPOSING TO MARRY A MAN OF IMMORAL CHARACTER IN THE HOPEOF HIS REFORMATION.

Time, and thy charms, thou fanciest will redeemYon aweless Libertine from rooted vice.Misleading thought! has he not paid the price,His taste for virtue?—Ah, the sensual streamHas flow'd too long.—What charms can so entice,What frequent guilt so pall, as not to shameThe rash belief, presumptuous and unwise,That crimes habitual will forsake the Frame?—[1]Thus, on the river's bank, in fabled lore,The Rustic stands; sees the stream swiftly go,And thinks he soon shall find the gulph belowA channel dry, which he may safe pass o'er.—Vain hope!—it flows—and flows—and yet will flow,Volume decreaseless, to theFINAL HOUR.

1:“Rusticus exspectat dum defluit amnis: at illeLabitur, et labetur in omne volubilis ævum.”Horace.

“Rusticus exspectat dum defluit amnis: at illeLabitur, et labetur in omne volubilis ævum.”Horace.

TO A YOUNG LADY IN AFFLICTION,WHO FANCIED SHE SHOULD NEVER MORE BE HAPPY.

Yes, thou shalt smile again!—Time always healsIn youth, the wounds of Sorrow.—O! surveyYon now subsided Deep, thro' Night a preyTo warring Winds, and to their furious pealsSurging tumultuous!—yet, as in dismay,The settling Billows tremble.—Morning stealsGrey on the rocks;—and soon, to pour the dayFrom the streak'd east, the radiant Orb unveilsIn all his pride of light.—Thus shall the glowOf beauty, health, and hope, by soft degreesSpread o'er thy breast; disperse these storms of woe;Wake, with sweet pleasure's sense, the wish to please,Till from those eyes the wonted lustres flow,Bright as the Sun on calm'd and crystal Seas.

TO THE POPPY.

While Summer Roses all their glory yieldTo crown the Votary of Love and Joy,Misfortune's Victim hails, with many a sigh,Thee, scarletPoppyof the pathless field,Gaudy, yet wild and lone; no leaf to shieldThy flaccid vest, that, as the gale blows high,Flaps, and alternate folds around thy head.—So stands in the long grass a love-craz'd Maid,Smiling aghast; while stream to every windHer gairish ribbons, smear'd with dust and rain;But brain-sick visions cheat her tortur'd mind,And bring false peace. Thus, lulling grief and pain,Kind dreams oblivious from thy juice proceed,Thou flimsy, shewy, melancholy weed.

WRITTEN IN THE RAINY SUMMER OF 1789.

Ah, haplessJune! circles yon lunar SphereYet the dim Halo? whose cold powers ordainLong o'er these vales shou'd sweep, in misty train,The pale continuous showers, that sullying smearThy radiant lilies, towering on the plain;Bend low, with rivel'd leaves of canker'd stain,Thy drench'd and heavy rose.—Yet pledg'd and dearFair Hope still holds the promise of the Year;Suspends her anchor on the silver hornOf the next wexing Orb, tho',June, thy Day,Robb'd of its golden eve, and rosy morn,And gloomy as the Winter's rigid sway,Leads sunless, lingering, disappointing HoursThro' the song-silent glades and dropping bowers.

TRANSLATION.

He who a tender long-lov'd Wife survives,Sees himself sunder'd from the only mindWhose hopes, and fears, and interests, were combin'd,And blended with his own.—No more she lives!No more, alas! her death-numb'd ear receivesHis thoughts, that trace the Past, or anxious windThe Future's darkling maze!—His wish refin'd,The wish to please, exists no more, that givesThe will its energy, the nerves their tone!—He feels the texture of his quiet torn,And stopt the settled course that Action drew;Life stands suspended—motionless—till thrownBy outward causes, into channels new;—But, in the dread suspense, how sinks the Soul forlorn!

[1]In sultry noon when youthfulMiltonlay,Supinely stretch'd beneath the poplar shade,Lur'd by his Form, a fair Italian MaidSteals from her loitering chariot, to surveyThe slumbering charms, that all her soul betray.Then, as coy fears th' admiring gaze upbraid,Starts;—and these lines, with hurried pen pourtray'd,Slides in his half-clos'd hand;—and speeds away.—“Ye eyes, ye human stars!—if, thus conceal'dBy Sleep's soft veil, ye agitate my heart,Ah! what had been its conflict if reveal'dYour rays had shone!”—Bright Nymph, thy strains impartHopes, that impel the graceful Bard to rove,Seeking thro' Tuscan Vales his visionary Love.

1: This romantic circumstance of our great Poet's juvenility was inserted, as a well known fact, in one of the General Evening Posts in the Spring 1789, and it was there supposed to have formed the first impulse of his Italian journey.

SUBJECT CONTINUED.

He found her not;—yet much thePoetfound,To swell Imagination's golden store,On Arno's bank, and on that bloomy shore,Warbling Parthenope; in the wide bound,Where Rome's forlorn Campania stretches roundHer ruin'd towers and temples;—classic loreBreathing sublimer spirit from the powerOf local consciousness.—Thrice happy wound,Given by his sleeping graces, as the Fair“Hung over them enamour'd,” the desireThy fond result inspir'd, that wing'd him there,Where breath'd each Roman and each Tuscan Lyre,Might haply fan the emulative flame,That rose o'erDante's song, and rival'dMaro's fame.

THE CRITICS OF DOCTOR JOHNSON'S SCHOOL[1].

Lo! modern Critics emulously dareApe the great Despot; throw in pompous toneAnd massy words their trueno meaningdown!But while their envious eyes on Genius glare,While axioms false assiduously they squareIn arrogant antithesis, a frownLours on the brow of Justice, to disownThekindred malicewith its mimic air.Spirit of Common Sense[2]! must we endureThe incrustation hard without thegem?Find in th' Anana's rind the wilding sour,The Oak's rough knots on everyOsier's stem?The dark contortions of the Sybil bear,Whose inspirations never meet our ear?

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