Original sonnets on various subjects; and odes paraphrased from Horace Part 7

SONNET LV.

ON THE QUICK TRANSITION FROM WINTER TO SUMMER IN THE YEAR 1785.

Loud blew the North thro' April's pallid days, Nor gra.s.s the field, nor leaves the grove obtains, Nor crystal sun-beams, nor the gilded rains, That bless the hours of promise, gently raise Warmth in the blood, without that fiery blaze, Which makes it boil along the throbbing veins.-- Albion, displeas'd, her own lov'd Spring surveys Pa.s.sing, with volant step, o'er russet plains; Sees her to Summer's fierce embraces speed, Pale, and unrobed.--Faithless! thou well may'st hide Close 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!

SONNET LVI.

TO A TIMID YOUNG LADY, DISTRESSED BY THE ATTENTIONS OF AN AMIABLE, AND _ACCEPTED_ LOVER.

What bashful wildness in those crystal eyes, Fair Zillia!--Ah! more dear to LOVE the gaze That _dwells_ upon its object, than the rays Of that vague glance, quick, as in summer skies The lightning's lambent flash, when neither rise Thunder, nor storm.--I mark, while transport plays Warm in thy Lover's eye, what dread betrays Thy throbbing heart:--yet why from his soft sighs Fleet'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 wind Rustles 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.

SONNET LVII.

WRITTEN THE NIGHT PRECEDING THE [1]FUNERAL OF MRS. CHARLES BUCKERIDGE.

In the chill silence of the winter eve, Thro' Lichfield's darken'd streets I bend my way By that sad mansion, where NERINA's Clay Awaits the MORNING KNELL;--and awed perceive, In the late bridal chamber, the clear ray Of numerous lights; while o'er the ceiling stray Shadows of those who frequent pa.s.s beneath Round the PALE 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 bear These solemn warnings from the House of Woes; Pondering how late, for young NERINA, there, Joyous, the Love-illumin'd Morn arose.

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

SONNET LVIII.

Not the slow Hea.r.s.e, where nod the sable plumes, The Parian Statue, bending o'er the Urn, The dark robe floating, the dejection worn On the dropt eye, and lip no smile illumes; Not all this pomp of sorrow, that presumes It pays Affection's debt, is due concern To the FOR EVER ABSENT, tho' it mourn Fashion's allotted time. If Time consumes, While Life is ours, the precious vestal-flame Memory 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!

SONNET LIX.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LADY MARIANNE CARNEGIE, pa.s.sing 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'd With 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'd That wish of change, that irksome la.s.situde, Which often, thro' unvaried days, obtrude On Youth's rash bosom, dangerously inclin'd To pant for more than peace.--Rich volumes yield Their soul-endowing wealth.--Beyond e'en these Shall consciousness of filial duty gild The gloomy hours, when Winter's turbid Seas Roar round the rocks; when the dark Tempest lours, And mourn the Winds round Ethic's lonely towers.

SONNET LX.[1]

Why view'st thou, Edwy, with disdainful mien The little Naiad of the Downton Wave?

High 'mid the rocks, where her clear waters lave The circling, gloomy basin.--In such scene, Silent, sequester'd, few demand, I ween, That _last_ perfection Phidian chisels gave.

Dimly the soft and musing Form is seen In the hush'd, sh.e.l.ly, shadowy, lone concave.-- As sleeps her pure, tho' darkling fountain there, I love to recollect her, stretch'd supine Upon its mossy brink, with pendent hair, As dripping o'er the flood.--Ah! well combine Such 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 sh.e.l.ls, and fossils, in the highest elevation of that mountainous and romantic Scene.

SONNET LXI.

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

Disciple of the bright Aonian Maid In thy life's blossom, a resistless spell Amid 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 bell Nods o'er loquacious brook, or silent well.-- Thus woo'd her inspirations, their rapt aid Liberal she gave; nor only thro' thy strain Breath'd their pure spirit, while her charms beguil'd The languid hours of Sorrow, and of Pain, But when Youth's tide ran high, and tempting smil'd Circean Pleasure, rescuing did she stand, Broke the Enchantress' cup and snapt her wand.

1: Then of Sutton Coldfield.

SONNET LXII.

[1]Dim grows the vital flame in his dear breast From whom my life I drew;--and thrice has Spring Bloom'd; and fierce Winter thrice, on darken'd wing, Howl'd o'er the grey, waste fields, since he possess'd Or strength of frame, or intellect.----Now bring Nor Morn, nor Eve, his cheerful steps, that press'd Thy pavement, LICHFIELD, in the spirit bless'd Of social gladness. They have fail'd, and cling Feebly to the fix'd chair, no more to rise Elastic!--Ah! my heart forebodes that soon The FULL OF DAYS shall sleep;--nor Spring's soft sighs, Nor Winter's blast awaken him!--Begun The twilight!--Night is long!--but o'er his eyes Life-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.

SONNET LXIII.

TO COLEBROOKE DALE.

Thy GENIUS, 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 Barge And the swart Cyclops ever-clanging forge Din 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 large Of black sulphureous smoke, that spread their veils Like funeral c.r.a.pe upon the sylvan robe Of thy romantic rocks, pollute thy gales, And stain thy gla.s.sy floods;--while o'er the globe To spread thy stores metallic, this rude yell Drowns the wild woodland song, and breaks the Poet's spell.