SONNET.

On Sentiments expressed by Mr. COLERIDGE, in the Preface to his " Sonnets," adverse to the PETRARCAN MODEL.

THOU, who hast amply quaff'd the Muses' rill,
And bath'd thy locks in pure poetic dews;
Canst thou disparage the PETRARCAN Muse:→→
To her sweet voice deaf, cold, fastidious still?
Examine if unprejudic'd the Will

COLERIDGE, which can to her high praise refuse;
And of perverseness her fair laws accuse,
Which through the enchanted ear the bosom fill.
Her various, cadenc'd, regularity

HE, who o'er Epic heights hath soar'd sublime, And magic SPENSER, lov'd.-The mighty Dead Have Followers, haply to Posterity

Not unendear'd.-O! scorn not these, who led, In many a graceful maze, the full harmonious rhime.

CANTABR.-6 FEBR. 1804.

C. LOFFT.

SONNET.

MORNING IN AUTUMN.

HAIL! lovely pledges of a splendid day;

Ye mists, that swell the valley's waving corn;
And dews, that o'er the hills your gems display,
Rich in the vivid rays of rising morn.
While your delicious odours breathe around,
Early I plunge into the sparkling stream;

And, bathing, listen to the torrent's sound,

And autumn birds, that chaunt the morning beam The cock's shrill clarion sounds the silent hours, And wakes my sweet Althea from her bed, To tend her linnet, or her opening flowers, Flush'd with the charms by lavish Nature shed; Yet far less winning than the magic powers Of her soft blushing smile of rosy red.

TAVISTOCK.

W. EVANS.

SONNET.

Supposed to be written by QUEEN MARY of Scotland, on her quitting France, just before she lost Sight of the Coast.

BY THE LATE MISS CATHERINE LIVINGSTON.

ADIEU! delightful land, a long adieu!

For ever must I quit thy much-lov'd shore, Where wing'd with pleasure ev'ry moment flew, And joys were mine that can return no more. Each soft'ning art, each elegant delight,

But forms the mind to keener sense of woe; And the dear ties that feeling souls unite,

Are causes still from which our sorrows flow. Oft has fair Science charm'd my pensive hour With all that taste or learning could impart : I wish'd no diadem, no regal pow'r,

But a soft empire o'er the willing heart. 'Tis past! the dear delusive dream is o'er, And Mary wakes to happiness no more.

1797.

SONNET.

By the Same, during her Confinement in England.

BY THE SAME.

Ан cease, thou plaintive harmonist of night!
Tho' sweetly sad thy melting numbers flow,
Wing thou to happier seats thy distant flight,
And soothe with thy soft notes some milder woe,
Or pour thy music on the perfum❜d air

As round the woodbin'd cot it gently sighs;
Charm with thy song the lovelorn Shepherd's care,
When Sleep its kind Lethean balm denies.
From these rude battlements let ravens scream,

And querulous owls disturb the peaceful night; Wake the pale captive from some mournful dream, To scenes of real woe and wild affright.

For me no ray of comfort cheers the gloom,
Nor hope I rest but in the silent tomb!

SONNET.

By GEORGE DOUGLAS, the young Man who assisted MARY in her Escape from the Castle Lochleven.

BY THE SAME.

FROM her fair cheek the vivid rose is flown,
No raptures sparkle in her beauteous eyes;
Forc'd by rebellion from her native throne,
In sad captivity, forlorn she sighs!

But the pale lily's sweet and pensive grace,

And those mild eyes in tears uprais'd to Heav'n,

With all the wonders of her angel-face,

That to my wild impassion'd gaze are giv'n, They could not thus, in regal splendour drest, Flush'd by the warmest tint that paints the rose; They could not thus have fir'd my tortur'd breast, And giv'n my careless youth to hopeless woes. But oh! her plaintive accents pierc'd my ear: I caught her balmy sigh, I felt her burning tear!