Chapter II: Preface (2)

Cou'd aweful Johnson want poetic ear,
Fancy, or judgment?--no! his splendid strain,
In prose, or rhyme, confutes that plea.--The pain
Which writh'd o'er Garrick's fortunes, shows us clear
_Whence_ all his spleen to GENIUS.--Ill to bear
A Friend's renown, that to his _own_ must reign,
Compar'd, a Meteor's evanescent train,
To Jupiter's fix'd orb, proves that each sneer,
Subtle and fatal to poetic Sense,
Did from insidious ENVY meanly flow,
Illumed with dazzling hues of eloquence,
And Sophist-Wit, that labor to o'er-throw
Th' awards of AGES, and new laws dispense
That lift the _mean_, and lay the MIGHTY low.

1: When Johnson's Idolaters are hard pressed concerning his injustice in those _fallacious_ though _able_ pages;--when they are reminded that he there tells us the perusal of Milton's Paradise Lost is a _task_, and never a _pleasure_;--reminded also of his avowed contempt of that exquisite Poem, the LYCIDAS;--of his declaration that Dryden's absurd Ode on the death of Mrs. Anne Killegrew, written in Cowley's _worst_ manner, is the _noblest_ Ode in this Language;--of his disdain of GRAY as a _lyric_ Poet; of the superior respect he pays to _Yalden_, _Blackmore_, and _Pomfret_;--When these things are urged, his Adorers seek to acquit him of _wilful_ misrepresentation by alledging that he wanted ear for lyric numbers, and taste for the _higher_ graces of POETRY:--but it is impossible so to believe, when we recollect that even his _prose_ abounds with poetic efflorescence, metaphoric conception, and harmonious cadence, which in the highest degree adorn it, without diminishing its strength. We must look for the source of his injustice in the envy of his temper. When Garrick was named a Candidate for admission into the Literary Club, Dr. Johnson told Mr. Thrale he would black-ball him. “_Who_, Sir? Mr. Garrick! Companion of your Youth! your acknowledged Friend!” “Why, Sir, I love my little David better than any, or all of his Flatterers love him; but surely we ought to sit in a Society like ours, 'unelbow'd by a Gamester, Pimp, or PLAYER.” See Supplement to Dr. Johnson's Letters, published by Mrs. Piozzi. The blended hypocrisy and malice of this sally show the man. Johnson knew, at times, how to coax without sincerity as well as to abuse without justice. His seeming fondness for Mrs. C---- of Lichfield, on his visits to that City, and the contempt with which he spoke of her to her Townspeople, was another instance of the same nature.

SONNET LXVIII.

ON THE POSTHUMOUS FAME OF DOCTOR JOHNSON.

Well it becomes thee, Britain, to avow
JOHNSON's high claims!--yet boasting that his fires
Were of _unclouded_ lustre, TRUTH retires
Blushing, and JUSTICE knits her solemn brow;
The eyes of GRATITUDE withdraw the glow
His moral strain inspir'd.--Their zeal requires
That thou should'st better guard the sacred Lyres,
Sources of thy bright fame, than to bestow
Perfection's wreath on him, whose ruthless hand,
Goaded by jealous rage, the laurels tore,
That JUSTICE, TRUTH, and GRATITUDE demand
Should deck those Lyres till Time shall be no more.--
A radiant course did Johnson's Glory run,
But large the spots that darken'd on its Sun.

SONNET LXIX.

TO A YOUNG LADY,
PURPOSING TO MARRY A MAN OF IMMORAL CHARACTER IN THE HOPE
OF HIS REFORMATION.

Time, and thy charms, thou fanciest will redeem
Yon aweless Libertine from rooted vice.
Misleading thought! has he not paid the price,
His taste for virtue?--Ah, the sensual stream
Has flow'd too long.--What charms can so entice,
What frequent guilt so pall, as not to shame
The rash belief, presumptuous and unwise,
That crimes habitual will forsake the Frame?--
[1]Thus, on the river's bank, in fabled lore,
The Rustic stands; sees the stream swiftly go,
And thinks he soon shall find the gulph below
A channel dry, which he may safe pass o'er.--
Vain hope!--it flows--and flows--and yet will flow,
Volume decreaseless, to the FINAL HOUR.

1:

“Rusticus exspectat dum defluit amnis: at ille
Labitur, et labetur in omne volubilis ævum.” HORACE.

SONNET LXX.

TO A YOUNG LADY IN AFFLICTION,
WHO FANCIED SHE SHOULD NEVER MORE BE HAPPY.

Yes, thou shalt smile again!--Time always heals
In youth, the wounds of Sorrow.--O! survey
Yon now subsided Deep, thro' Night a prey
To warring Winds, and to their furious peals
Surging tumultuous!--yet, as in dismay,
The settling Billows tremble.--Morning steals
Grey on the rocks;--and soon, to pour the day
From the streak'd east, the radiant Orb unveils
In all his pride of light.--Thus shall the glow
Of beauty, health, and hope, by soft degrees
Spread o'er thy breast; disperse these storms of woe;
Wake, with sweet pleasure's sense, the wish to please,
Till from those eyes the wonted lustres flow,
Bright as the Sun on calm'd and crystal Seas.

SONNET LXXI.

TO THE POPPY.

While Summer Roses all their glory yield
To crown the Votary of Love and Joy,
Misfortune's Victim hails, with many a sigh,
Thee, scarlet POPPY of the pathless field,
Gaudy, yet wild and lone; no leaf to shield
Thy flaccid vest, that, as the gale blows high,
Flaps, and alternate folds around thy head.--
So stands in the long grass a love-craz'd Maid,
Smiling aghast; while stream to every wind
Her gairish ribbons, smear'd with dust and rain;
But brain-sick visions cheat her tortur'd mind,
And bring false peace. Thus, lulling grief and pain,
Kind dreams oblivious from thy juice proceed,
THOU FLIMSY, SHEWY, MELANCHOLY WEED.

SONNET LXXII.

WRITTEN IN THE RAINY SUMMER OF 1789.

Ah, hapless JUNE! circles yon lunar Sphere
Yet the dim Halo? whose cold powers ordain
Long o'er these vales shou'd sweep, in misty train,
The pale continuous showers, that sullying smear
Thy radiant lilies, towering on the plain;
Bend low, with rivel'd leaves of canker'd stain,
Thy drench'd and heavy rose.--Yet pledg'd and dear
Fair Hope still holds the promise of the Year;
Suspends her anchor on the silver horn
Of the next wexing Orb, tho', JUNE, thy Day,
Robb'd of its golden eve, and rosy morn,
And gloomy as the Winter's rigid sway,
Leads sunless, lingering, disappointing Hours
Thro' the song-silent glades and dropping bowers.

SONNET LXXIII.

TRANSLATION.

He who a tender long-lov'd Wife survives,
Sees himself sunder'd from the only mind
Whose hopes, and fears, and interests, were combin'd,
And blended with his own.--No more she lives!
No more, alas! her death-numb'd ear receives
His thoughts, that trace the Past, or anxious wind
The Future's darkling maze!--His wish refin'd,
The wish to please, exists no more, that gives
The will its energy, the nerves their tone!--
He feels the texture of his quiet torn,
And stopt the settled course that Action drew;
Life stands suspended--motionless--till thrown
By outward causes, into channels new;--
But, in the dread suspense, how sinks the Soul forlorn!

SONNET LXXIV.

[1]In sultry noon when youthful MILTON lay,
Supinely stretch'd beneath the poplar shade,
Lur'd by his Form, a fair Italian Maid
Steals from her loitering chariot, to survey
The slumbering charms, that all her soul betray.
Then, as coy fears th' admiring gaze upbraid,
Starts;--and these lines, with hurried pen pourtray'd,
Slides in his half-clos'd hand;--and speeds away.--
“Ye eyes, ye human stars!--if, thus conceal'd
By Sleep's soft veil, ye agitate my heart,
Ah! what had been its conflict if reveal'd
Your rays had shone!”--Bright Nymph, thy strains impart
Hopes, that impel the graceful Bard to rove,
Seeking thro' Tuscan Vales his visionary Love.

1: This romantic circumstance of our great Poet's juvenility was inserted, as a well known fact, in one of the General Evening Posts in the Spring 1789, and it was there supposed to have formed the first impulse of his Italian journey.

SONNET LXXV.

SUBJECT CONTINUED.

He found her not;--yet much the POET found,
To swell Imagination's golden store,
On Arno's bank, and on that bloomy shore,
Warbling Parthenope; in the wide bound,
Where Rome's forlorn Campania stretches round
Her ruin'd towers and temples;--classic lore
Breathing sublimer spirit from the power
Of local consciousness.--Thrice happy wound,
Given by his sleeping graces, as the Fair
“Hung over them enamour'd,” the desire
Thy fond result inspir'd, that wing'd him there,
Where breath'd each Roman and each Tuscan Lyre,
Might haply fan the emulative flame,
That rose o'er DANTE's song, and rival'd MARO's fame.

SONNET LXXVI.

THE CRITICS OF DOCTOR JOHNSON'S SCHOOL[1].

Lo! modern Critics emulously dare
Ape the great Despot; throw in pompous tone
And massy words their true _no meaning_ down!
But while their envious eyes on Genius glare,
While axioms false assiduously they square
In arrogant antithesis, a frown
Lours on the brow of Justice, to disown
The _kindred malice_ with its mimic air.
Spirit of Common Sense[2]! must we endure
The incrustation hard without the _gem_?
Find in th' Anana's rind the wilding sour,
The Oak's rough knots on every _Osier_'s stem?
The dark contortions of the Sybil bear,
Whose inspirations never meet our ear?

1: In jargon, like the following, copied from a REVIEW, are the works of Genius perpetually criticized in our public Prints: “Passion has not sufficient coolness to pause for metaphor, nor has metaphor ardor enough to keep pace with passion.”--Nothing can be less true. Metaphoric strength of expression will burst even from vulgar and illiterate minds when they are agitated. It is a natural effort of roused sensibility in every gradation, from unlettered simplicity to the highest refinement. Passion has no occasion to _pause_ for metaphors, they _rush_ upon the mind which it has heated. Similies, it is true, are not natural to strong emotion. _They_ are the result of spirits that are calm, and at leisure to _compare_.

2: This idea is from a speech of Mr. Burke's, recorded by Boswell.

SONNET LXXVII.

O! hast thou seen a vernal Morning bright
Gem every bank and trembling leaf with dews,
Tinging the green fields with her amber hues,
Changing the leaden streams to lines of light?
Then seen dull Clouds, that shed untimely night,
Roll envious on, and every ray suffuse,
Till the chill'd Scenes their early beauty lose,
And faint, and colourless, no more invite
The glistening gaze of Joy?--'Twas emblem just
Of my youth's sun, on which deep shadows fell,
Spread from the PALL OF FRIENDS; and Grief's loud gust
Resistless, oft wou'd wasted tears compel:
Yet let me hope, that on my darken'd days
Science, and pious Trust, may shed pervading rays.

SONNET LXXVIII.

Sophia tempts me to her social walls,
That 'mid the vast Metropolis arise,
Where Splendor dazzles, and each Pleasure vies
In soft allurement; and each Science calls
To philosophic Domes, harmonious Halls,
And [1]storied Galleries. With duteous sighs,
Filial and kind, and with averted eyes,
I meet the gay temptation, as it falls
From a seducing pen.--Here--here I stay,
Fix'd by Affection's power; nor entertain
One latent wish, that might persuade to stray
From my ag'd Nurseling, in his life's dim wane;
But, like the needle, by the magnet's sway,
My constant, trembling residence maintain.

1: “And storied windows richly dight.”--IL PENSEROSO.

SONNET LXXIX.

While unsuspecting trust in all that wears
Virtue's bright semblance, stimulates my heart
To find its dearest pleasures in the part
Taken in other's joys; yielding to theirs
Its own desires, each latent wish that bears
The selfish stamp, O! let me shun the art
Taught by smooth Flattery in her courtly mart,
Where Simulation's studied smile ensnares!
Scorn that exterior varnish for the Mind,
Which, while it polishes the _manners_, veils
In showy clouds the _soul_.--E'en thus we find
Glass, o'er whose surface clear the pencil steals,
Grown less transparent, tho' with colours gay,
Sheds but the darken'd and ambiguous ray.

SONNET LXXX.

As lightens the brown Hill to vivid green
When juvenescent April's showery Sun
Looks on its side, with golden glance, at Noon;
So on the gloom of Life's now faded scene
Shines the dear image of those days serene,
From Memory's consecrated treasures won;
The days that rose, ere youth, and years were flown,
Soft as the morn of May;--and well I ween
If they had clouds, in Time's alembic clear
They vanish'd all, and their gay vision glows
In brightness unobscur'd; and now they wear
A more than pristine sunniness, which throws
Those mild reflected lights that soften care,
Loss of lov'd Friends, and all the train of Woes.

SONNET LXXXI.

ON A LOCK OF MISS SARAH SEWARD'S HAIR
WHO DIED IN HER TWENTIETH YEAR.

My Angel Sister, tho' thy lovely form
Perish'd in Youth's gay morning, yet is mine
This precious Ringlet!--still the soft hairs shine,
Still glow the nut-brown tints, all bright and warm
With sunny gleam!--Alas! each kindred charm
Vanish'd long since; deep in the silent shrine
Wither'd to shapeless Dust!--and of their grace
Memory alone retains the faithful trace.--
Dear Lock, had thy sweet Owner liv'd, ere now
Time on her brow had faded thee!--My care
Screen'd from the sun and dew thy golden glow;
And thus her early beauty dost thou wear,
Thou _all_ of that fair Frame my love cou'd save
From the resistless ravage of the GRAVE!

SONNET LXXXII.

From a riv'd Tree, that stands beside the grave
Of the Self-slaughter'd, to the misty Moon
Calls the complaining Owl in Night's pale noon;
And from a hut, far on the hill, to rave
Is heard the angry Ban-Dog. With loud wave
The rous'd and turbid River surges down,
Swoln with the mountain-rains, and dimly shown
Appals the Sense.--Yet see! from yonder cave,
Her shelter in the recent, stormy showers,
With anxious brow, a fond expecting Maid
Steals towards the flood!--Alas!--for now appears
Her Lover's vacant boat!--the broken oars
Roll down the tide!--What images invade!
Aghast she stands, the Statue of her fears!

SONNET LXXXIII.

ON CATANIA AND SYRACUSE
SWALLOWED UP BY EARTHQUAKE.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF FILACAJA.

Here, from laborious Art, proud TOWNS, ye rose!
Here, in an instant, sunk!--nor ought remains
Of all ye were!--on the wide, lonely plains
Not e'en a stone, that might these words disclose,
“Here stood CATANIA;”--or whose surface shows
That this was SYRACUSE:--but louring reigns
A trackless DESOLATION.--Dim Domains!
Pale, mournful Strand! how oft, with anxious throes,
Seek I sad relics, which no spot supplies!--
A SILENCE--a fix'd HORROR sears my soul,
Arrests my foot!--Dread DOOM of human crimes,
What art thou?--Ye o'erwhelmed Cities, rise!
That your terrific skeletons may scowl
Portentous warning to succeeding Times!

SONNET LXXXIV.

While one sere leaf, that parting Autumn gilds,
Trembles upon the thin, and naked spray,
November, dragging on his sunless day,
Lours, cold and fallen, on the watry fields;
And Nature to the waste dominion yields,
Stript her last robes, with gold and purple gay.--
So droops my life, of your soft beams despoil'd,
Youth, Health, and Hope, that long exulting smil'd;
And the wild carols, and the bloomy hues
Of merry Spring-time, spruce on every plain
Her half-blown bushes, moist with sunny rain,
More pensive thoughts in my sunk heart infuse
Than Winter's grey, and desolate domain,
Faded, like my lost Youth, that no bright Spring renews.

SONNET LXXXV.

TO MARCH.

MARCH, tho' the Hours of promise with bright ray
May gild thy noons, yet, on wild pinion borne,
Loud Winds more often rudely wake thy morn,
And harshly hymn thy early-closing day.
Still the chill'd Earth wears, with her tresses shorn,
Her bleak, grey garb:--yet not for _this_ we mourn,
Nor, as in Winter's more enduring sway,
With festal viands, and Associates gay,
Arm 'gainst the Skies;--nor _shun_ the piercing gale;
But, with blue cheeks, and with disorder'd hair,
Meet its rough breath;--and peep for primrose pale,
Or lurking violet, under hedges bare;
And, thro' long evenings, from our Lares[1] claim
The thrift of stinted grate, and sullen flame.

1: Lares, Hearth-Gods.

SONNET LXXXVI.

TO THE LAKE OF KILLARNEY[1].

Pride of Ierne's Sea-encircled bound,
Rival of all Britannia's Naiads boast,
Magnificent Killarney!--from thy coast
Tho' mountains rise with noblest woods embrown'd;
Tho' ten-voiced Echos send the cannon's sound
In thunders bursting the vast rocks around,
Till startled Wonder and Delight exhaust
In countless repercussion--Isles embost
Upon thy liquid glass; their bloomy veil
Sorbus and ārbutus;--yet not for thee
So keenly wakes our local ecstacy,
As o'er the narrow, barren, silent Dale,
Where deeply sleeps, rude circling Rocks among,
The Love-devoted Fount enamour'd PETRARCH sung.

1: This Sonnet was written on having read a description of the Killarney Scenery immediately after that of the Vale of Vaucluse, uncultivated and comparatively desert as the latter has been through more than the present Century.

SONNET LXXXVII.

TO A YOUNG LADY,
ADDRESSED BY A GENTLEMAN CELEBRATED FOR HIS POETIC TALENTS.

Round Cleon's brow the Delphic laurels twine,
And lo! the laurel decks Amanda's breast!
Charm'd shall he mark its glossy branches shine
On that contrasting snow; shall see express'd
Love's better omens, in the green hues dress'd
Of this selected foliage.--Nymph, 't is thine
The warning story on its leaves to find,
Proud Daphne's fate, imprison'd in its rind,
And with its umbrage veil'd, great Phœbus' power
Scorning, and bent, with feet of wind, to foil
His swift pursuit, till on Thessalian shore
Shot into boughs, and rooted to the soil.--
Thus warn'd, fair Maid, Apollo's ire to shun,
Soon may his Spray's and VOTARY's lot be one.

SONNET LXXXVIII.

THE PROSPECT A FLOODED VALE.

The three following Sonnets are written in the character of
Werter; the sentiments and images chiefly, but not _intirely_
taken from one of his letters.

Up this bleak Hill, in wintry Night's dread hour,
With mind congenial to the scene, I come!
To see my Valley in the lunar gloom,
To see it _whelm'd_.--Amid the cloudy lour
Gleams the cold Moon;--and shows the ruthless power
Of yon swoln Floods, that white with turbid foam
Roll o'er the fields;--and, billowy as they roam,
Against the bushes beat!--A Vale no more,
A troubled Sea, toss'd by the furious Wind!--
Alas! the wild and angry Waves efface
Pathway, and hedge, and bank, and stile!--I find
But one wide waste of waters!--In controul
Thus dire, to tides of Misery and Disgrace
Love opes the flood-gates of my struggling Soul.

SONNET LXXXIX.

SUBJECT CONTINUED.

Yon late but gleaming Moon, in hoary light
Shines out unveil'd, and on the cloud's dark fleece
Rests;--but her strengthen'd beams appear to increase
The wild disorder of this troubled Night.
Redoubling Echos seem yet more to excite
The roaring Winds and Waters!--Ah! why cease
Resolves, that promis'd everlasting peace,
And drew my steps to this incumbent height?
I wish!--I shudder!--stretch my longing arms
O'er the steep cliff!--My swelling spirits brave
The leap, that quiets all these dire alarms,
And floats me tossing on the stormy wave!
But Oh! what roots my feet?--what spells, what charms
The daring purpose of my Soul enslave?

SONNET XC.

SUBJECT CONTINUED.

My hour is not yet come!--these burning eyes
Have not yet look'd their _last_!--else, 'mid the roar
Of this wild STORM, what gloomy joy to pour
My freed, exhaling Soul!--sublime to rise,
Rend the conflicting clouds, inflame the skies,
And lash the torrents!--Bending to explore
Our evening seat, my straining eye once more
Roves the wide watry Waste;--but nought descries
Save the pale Flood, o'erwhelming as it strays.
Yet Oh! lest my remorseless Fate decree
That all I love, with life's extinguish'd rays
Sink from my soul, to soothe this agony,
To balm that life, whose loss may forfeit thee,
COME DEAR REMEMBRANCE OF DEPARTED DAYS!

SONNET XCI.

On the fleet streams, the Sun, that late arose,
In amber radiance plays;--the tall young grass
No foot hath bruis'd;--clear Morning, as I pass,
Breathes the pure gale, that on the blossom blows;
And, as with gold yon green hill's summit glows,
The lake inlays the vale with molten glass.--
Now is the Year's soft youth;--yet me, alas!
Cheers not as it was wont;--impending woes
_Weigh_ on my heart;--the joys, that once were mine,
Spring leads not back;--and those that yet remain
Fade while she blooms.--Each hour more lovely shine
Her crystal beams, and feed her floral Train;
But ah with pale, and waning fires, decline
Those eyes, whose light my filial hopes sustain.

SONNET XCII.

Behold that Tree, in Autumn's dim decay,
Stript by the frequent, chill, and eddying Wind;
Where yet some yellow, lonely leaves we find
Lingering and trembling on the naked spray,
Twenty, perchance, for millions whirl'd away!
Emblem, alas! too just, of Humankind!
Vain MAN expects longevity, design'd
For few indeed; and their protracted day
What is it worth that Wisdom does not scorn?
The blasts of Sickness, Care, and Grief appal,
That laid the Friends in dust, whose natal morn
Rose near their own;--and solemn is the call;--
Yet, like those weak, deserted leaves forlorn,
Shivering they cling to life, and fear to fall!

SONNET XCIII.

Yon soft Star, peering o'er the sable cloud,
Sheds its [1]green lustre thro' the darksome air.--
Haply in that mild Planet's crystal sphere
Live the freed Spirits, o'er whose timeless shroud
Swell'd my lone sighs, my tearful sorrows flow'd.
They, of these long regrets perhaps aware,
View them with pitying smiles.--O! then, if e'er
Your guardian cares may be on me bestow'd,
For the pure friendship of our youthful days,
Ere yet ye soar'd from earth, illume my heart,
That roves bewilder'd in Dejection's night,
And lead it back to peace!--as now ye dart,
From your pellucid mansion, the kind rays,
That thro' misleading darkness stream so bright.

1: The lustre of the brightest of the Stars always appeared to me of a green hue; and they are so described by Ossian.

SONNET XCIV.

All is not right with him, who ill sustains
Retirement's silent hours.--Himself he flies,
Perchance from that insipid equipoise,
Which always with the hapless mind remains
That feels no native bias; never gains
One energy of will, that does not rise
From some external cause, to which he hies
From his own blank inanity.--When reigns,
With a strong, _cultur'd_ mind, this wretched hate
To commune with himself, from thought that tells
Of some lost joy, or dreaded stroke of Fate
He struggles to escape;--or sense that dwells
On secret guilt towards God, or Man, with weight
Thrice dire, the self-exiling flight impels.

SONNET XCV.

On the damp margin of the sea-beat shore
Lonely at eve to wander;--or reclin'd
Beneath a rock, what time the rising wind
Mourns o'er the waters, and, with solemn roar,
Vast billows into caverns surging pour,
And back recede alternate; while combin'd
Loud shriek the sea-fowls, harbingers assign'd,
Clamorous and fearful, of the stormy hour;
To listen with deep thought those awful sounds;
Gaze on the boiling, the tumultuous waste,
Or promontory rude, or craggy mounds
Staying the furious main, delight has cast
O'er my rapt spirit, and my thrilling heart,
Dear as the softer joys green vales impart.

SONNET XCVI.

The breathing freshness of the shining Morn,
Whose beams glance yellow on the distant fields,
A sweet, unutterable pleasure yields
To my dejected sense, that turns with scorn
From the light joys of Dissipation born.
Sacred Remembrance all my bosom shields
Against each glittering lance she gaily wields,
Warring with fond Regrets, that silent mourn
The Heart's dear comforts lost.--But, NATURE, thou,
Thou art resistless still;--and yet I ween
Thy present balmy gales, and vernal blow,
To MEMORY owe the magic of their scene;
For with such fragrant breath, such orient rays,
Shone the soft mornings of my youthful days.

SONNET XCVII.

TO A COFFIN-LID.

Thou silent Door of our eternal sleep,
Sickness, and pain, debility, and woes,
All the dire train of ills Existence knows,
Thou shuttest out FOR EVER!--Why then weep
This fix'd tranquillity,--so long!--so deep!
In a dear FATHER's clay-cold Form?--where rose
No energy, enlivening Health bestows,
Thro' many a tedious year, that us'd to creep
In languid deprivation; while the flame
Of intellect, resplendent once confess'd,
Dark, and more dark, each passing day became.
Now that angelic lights the SOUL invest,
Calm let me yield to _thee_ a joyless Frame,
THOU SILENT DOOR OF EVERLASTING REST.

_Lichfield, March 1790._

SONNET XCVIII.

Since my griev'd mind some energy regains,
Industrious habits can, at times, repress
The weight of filial woe, the deep distress
Of life-long separation; yet its pains,
Oft do they throb along these fever'd veins.--
My rest has lost its balm, the fond caress
Wont the dear aged forehead to impress
At midnight, as he slept;--nor now obtains
My uprising the blest news, that cou'd impart
Joy to the morning, when its dawn had brought
Some health to that weak Frame, o'er which my heart
With fearful fondness yearn'd, and anxious thought.--
Time, and the HOPE that robs the mortal Dart
Of its fell sting, shall cheer me--as they ought.

SONNET XCIX.

ON THE VIOLENT THUNDER STORMS.

DECEMBER 1790.

Remorseless WINTER! in thy iron reign
Comes the loud whirlwind, on thy pinion borne;
The _long long_ night,--the tardy, leaden morn;
The grey frost, riv'ling lane, and hill, and plain;
Chill silent snows, and heavy, pattering rain.
These are thy _known_ allies;--and Life forlorn,
Yet patient, droops, nor breathes repinings vain;
But now, Usurper, thou hast madly torn
From Summer's hand his stores of angry sway;
His rattling thunders with thy winds unite,
On thy pale snows those livid lightnings play,
That pour their deathful splendors o'er his night,
To poise the pleasures of his golden day,
Soft gales, blue skies, and long-protracted light.

SONNET C.

WRITTEN DECEMBER 1790.

Lyre of the Sonnet, that full many a time
Amus'd my lassitude, and sooth'd my pains,
When graver cares forbade the _lengthen'd_ strains,
To thy brief bound, and oft-returning chime
A long farewell!--the splendid forms of Rhyme
When Grief in lonely orphanism reigns,
Oppress the drooping Soul.--DEATH's dark domains
Throw mournful shadows o'er the Aonian clime;
For in their silent bourne my filial bands
Lie all dissolv'd;--and swiftly-wasting pour
From my frail glass of life, health's sparkling sands.
Sleep then, my LYRE, thy tuneful tasks are o'er,
Sleep! for my heart bereav'd, and listless hands
Wake with rapt touch thy glowing strings no more!

PARAPHRASES AND IMITATIONS OF HORACE.