SONNET XX.

NOVEMBER 1792.

THERE is strange musick in the stirring wind,

When low'rs th' autumnal eve, and all alone

To the dark wood's cold covert thou art gone, Whose ancient trees on the rough slope reclin'd Rock, and at times scatter their tresses sear. If in such shades, beneath their murmuring, Thou late hast pass'd the happier hours of spring, With sadness thou wilt mark the fading year; Chiefly if one, with whom such sweets at morn Or eve thou'st shar'd, to distant scenes shall stray. O spring, return! return, auspicious May! But sad will be thy coming, and forlorn, If she return not with thy cheering ray, Who from these shades is gone, gone far

away.

SONNET XXI.

APRIL 1793.

WHOSE was that gentle voice, that whispering sweet,
Promis'd methought long days of bliss sincere?
Soothing it stole on my deluded ear,

Most like soft musick, that might sometimes cheat
Thoughts dark and drooping! "Twas the voice of Hope.
Of love, and social scenes, it seem'd to speak,
Of truth, of friendship, of affection meek;

That, oh! poor friend, might to life's downward slope
Lead us in peace, and bless our latest hours.

Ah me! the prospect sadden'd as she sung;
Loud on my startl'd ear the death-bell rung;
Chill darkness wrapt the pleasurable bow'rs,
Whilst Horror, pointing to yon breathless clay,
"No peace be thine," exclaim'd, 66 away, away!"

SONNET XXII.

MAY 1793.

As o'er these hills I take my silent rounds,

Still on that vision which is flown I dwell! On images I lov'd, (alas, how well!) Now past, and but remember'd like sweet sounds Of yesterday! yet in my breast I keep

Such recollections, painful though they seem, And hours of joy retrace, till from my dream I wake, and find them not: then I could weep To think that Time so soon each sweet devours; To think so soon life's first endearments fail, And we are still misled by Hope's smooth tale! Who, like a flatterer, when the happiest hours Are past, and most we wish her cheering lay, Will fly, as faithless and as fleet as they!

SONNET XXIII.

NETLEY ABBEY.

FALL'N pile! I ask not what has been thy fate; But when the weak winds, wafted from the main, Through each rent arch, like spirits that complain, Come hollow to my ear, I meditate

On this world's passing pageant, and the lot

Of those who once full proudly in their prime

And beauteous might have stood, till bow'd by time Or injury, their early boast forgot,

They may have fallen like thee: Pale and forlorn,
Their brow, besprent with thin hairs, white as snow,
They lift, majestick yet; as they would scorn

This short-liv'd scene of vanity and woe;
Whilst on their sad looks smilingly they bear
The trace of creeping age, and the dim hue of care!

SONNET XXIV.

OHARMONY! thou tenderest nurse of pain,
If that thy note's sweet magick e'er can heal
Griefs which the patient spirit oft may feel,
Oh! let me listen to thy songs again,

Till Memory her fairest tints shall bring,
Hope wake with brighter eye, and list ning seem
With smiles to think on some delightful dream,
That way'd o'er the charm'd sense its gladsome wing:
For when thou leadest all thy soothing strains
More smooth along, the silent passions meet
In one suspended transport, sad and sweet,
And nought but sorrow's softest touch remains,
That, when the transitory charm is o'er,
Just wakes a tear, and then is felt no more.