XLVII. TO THE MEMORY OF RAISLEY CALVERT. CALVERT! it must not be unheard by them This care was thine when sickness did condemn My temples with the Muse's diadem. PART II. I. SCORN not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frowned, It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faery-land To struggle through dark ways; and, when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The Thing became a trumpet; whence he blew II. Nor Love, not War, nor the tumultuous swell Soft is the music that would charm for ever; III. MARK the concentred hazels that enclose In which some ancient Chieftain finds repose To mimic Time's forlorn humanities. IV. COMPOSED AFTER A JOURNEY ACROSS THE HAMBLETON DARK and more dark the shades of evening fell; Or clock to toll from! Many a tempting isle, We should forget them; they are of the sky, |