Yet do thy strains most rare, thy lays, ne'er fail
Midst the drear scene my drooping heart to cheer;
Warm the chill blood,and draw the rapturous tear.
Whether thou lov'st in mournful mood to wail
Lycid "bright genius of the sounding shore,”
Or else with slow and solemn hymns to move
My thoughts to piety and virtue's lore;
But chiefest when, (if Delia grace the measure,)
The lyre o'erwhelming all my soul in pleasure,
Rolls the soft song of joy, and endless love.

SONNET.

ON A WET SUMMER.

ALL ye, who far from town, in rural hall, Like me, were wont to dwell near pleasant field, Enjoying all the sunny day did yield,

With me the change lament, in irksome thrall, By rains incessant held; for now no call

From early swain invites my hand to wield The scythe; in parlour dim I sit conceal'd, And mark the lessening sand from hour-glass fall; Or 'neath my window view the wistful train Of dripping poultry, whom the vine's broad leaves Shelter no more.-Mute is the mournful plain,

Silent the swallow sits beneath the thatch, And vacant hind hangs pensive o'er his hatch, Counting the frequent drop from reeded eave

SONNET.

COLD is the senseless heart that never strove,
With the mild tumult of a real flame;

Rugged the breast that beauty cannot tame,
Nor youth's enlivening graces teach to love

The pathless vale, the long-forsaken grove, The rocky cave that bears the fair one's name, With ivy mantled o'er-For empty fame,

Let him amidst the rabble toil, or rove In search of plunder far to western clime.

Give me to waste the hours in amorous play With Delia, beauteous maid, and build the rhyme Praising her flowing hair, her snowy arms, And all that prodigality of charms

Form'd to enslave my heart and grace my lay.

SONNETS.

I.

IN days of old, ere (charm'd at length to rest)
Stern Chivalry her idle spear uphung,

Sweet mid loud arms the minstrel's music rung; In each proud castle, at the gorgeous feast Mix'd with bold chiefs he sat, an honour'd guest; Cheer'd with the genial rites, his lyre he strung, War, love, the wizard, and the fay he sung,

And fir'd with rapture each impassion'd breast: Such were the strains, which in her livelier prime Bright Fancy pour'd; but ah! they're heard no more!

Yet is not Genius dead: the song sublime Might burst in tides as copious as of yore;

But Want,grim monster,checks the raging rhyme, And damps the Poet's wing outstretch'd to soar.

II.

AH! what avails it with adventurous pace
To scale, fair Poësy, thy heights sublime?
Though many a flower adorn the fragrant clime,
Oft chilling storms with envious blast deface
Each opening bloom: meanwhile, with lifted mace
High on the mountain's brow, in garb obscene,
Sits Want, a spectre pale, whose threatening mien
Oft drives the bard to quit the' unfinish'd race :
VOL. XXXVII.
A a

Yet nobler some, undaunted at his frown,

Up the steep hill have trod the rugged way; Such sung the Redcross knight, the Trojan town, Brave Gama's toils, and Salem's bloody fray;

Such too, with harder fate, though like renown, Great Ella's minstrel pour'd his deathless lay."

III.

OXFORD, since late I left thy peaceful shore,
Much I regret thy domes with turrets crown'd,
Thy crested walls with twining ivy bound,
Thy gothic fanes, dim aisles, and cloisters hoar,
And treasur'd rolls of Wisdom's ancient lore;
Nor less thy varying bells, which hourly sound
In pensive chime, or ring in lively round,
Or toll in the slow curfeu's solemn roar:
Much too thy moonlight walks, and musings grave
Mid silent shades of high-embowering trees,
And much thy sister-streams, whose willows wave
In whispering cadence to the evening breeze;
But most those Friends, whose much-lov'd con-
verse gave

Thy gentle charms a tenfold power to please.

* Spenser, Homer, Camoens, Tasso, and Chatterton are the poets alluded to in the four concluding lines,