PR 
 
 5133 
 
SONNETS 
 
 WRITTEN STRICTLY IN THE ITALIAN STYLE, 
 
 TO WHICH. IS PREFIXED 
 
 Sn fegag oh &anmUW&xitiug. 
 
 REV. WILLIAM PULLING, M.A. A.L.S. 
 
 OE SIDNEJT SUSSEX COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE , AND RECTOR OF DYMCHURCTI 
 AND BLACKMANSTONE, KENT. 
 
 In tenui labor : at tenuis non gloria ; si quern 
 Numina larva sinunt, auditque vocatus Apollo. 
 
 Virgilii Georg. iv. 6, 7. 
 
 LONDON: 
 JOHN BOHN, 17, HENRIETTA STREET, 
 
 COVENT GARDEN, 
 
 M DCCC XL. 
 

 . RICHARDS, PR1NTFR, ST. MARTIN'S LANE. 
 
TO 
 
 ROBERT ROSCOE, ESQ. 
 
 OF FINCHLEY, MIDDLESEX, 
 
 SON OF 
 
 THE LATE WILLIAM ROSCOE, ESQ. 
 
 OF LIVERPOOL 
 
 (WHOSE MERITS ARE BEYOND ALL PRAISE) 
 
 THESE SONNETS, 
 
 WITH EVERY SENTIMENT OF AFFECTION AND ESTEEM, 
 
 CONFIRMED 
 
 BY AN INTIMACY OF THIRTY YEARS, 
 
 ARE DEDICATED 
 
 AS A TOKEN OF REGARD, 
 
 BY 
 
 HIS VERY SINCERE 
 
 AND OBLIGED FRIEND, 
 
 W. PULLING. 
 
 *? 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 Essay on Son net- Writing - - - i 
 
 To the Muse - - - - - 1 
 
 To Hope - - - - - 2 
 
 To Grandeur - - - - -8 
 
 To Knowledge - - - - - 4 
 
 To Religion - - - - 5 
 
 To an Officer in an East Indiaman on his departure - 6 
 
 To Fancy - - - - -7 
 
 To the late Rev. Hugh James Rose, B.D. - . 8 
 
 On the Approach of Winter - - - - 9 
 
 On a Lock of a departed Father's Hair - - 10 
 
 On a Streamlet - - - - - 11 
 
 On seeing a very old Villager extremely attentive at Church 12 
 
 Written at Versailles, in the sleeping-room of Louis XVI. - 13 
 
 The Return of Spring - - - - 14 
 
 To Meditation - - - - - 15 
 
 To the Deity - - - - - 16 
 
 To the Muse - - - - -17 
 
 To the Life Boat - - - - -18 
 
 To Memory - - - - - 19 
 
 To my departed Brother - - - - 20 
 
 To Thought - - - - - 21 
 
 On recovering from very serious illness - - 22 
 
 To Sympathy - - - - - 23 
 
 To God - - - - - 24 
 
 To Nature - - - - - 25 
 
 To a Friend - - - - - 20 
 
 To Human Eloquence - - - - 27 
 
 To the Sea - - - - 28 
 
 To Fancy - - - - - 20 
 
VI CONTENTS. 
 
 To the Eagle - - 30 
 
 To the Muse - - . . - 31 
 
 To a Blackbird - - . . - 32 
 
 To God - - . . . - 33 
 
 To a Lady - . . . - 34 
 
 To my beloved Mother - - . -35 
 
 To Chudleigh - . . . - 36 
 
 To a Lady - - - . - 37 
 
 To the Sea . . . .38 
 
 To the four great Poets of Italy - - - 39 
 
 To Tasso - - . . - 40 
 
 To the Bay-Tree - - . . .41 
 
 To my Soul - . 40 
 
 To Botany - - . . - 43 
 
 The Widow's Son at Nain - - _ - 44 
 
 To Imagination - . . _ 45 
 
 To a Rose-Tree - - . . - 46 
 
 To Religion - - . . - 47 
 
 To the Deity - . . . . 4S 
 
 To Poetry - . . . - 49 
 
 To Religion - . . . - 50 
 
 To Poetry - - . . - 51 
 
 To Providence - - _ . - 52 
 
 The Dream - . . . - 53 
 
 To the Sun - - . . - 54 
 
 To a Heart's-Ease - . . -56 
 
 To Morning - . . . - 56 
 
 To Memory - 57 
 
 To my Best-Beloved - - - 58 
 
 To the Cottage of P. N. Esq. - - - 59 
 
 To a young Italian Musician - - - 60 
 
 To a Vision - - - - 61 
 
 Chudleigh Rock - - - - - 62 
 
 To a Man conscience-stricken at Church 68 
 
 To a Friend who was very unfortunate . - 64 
 
 To .1 Barren Scene - - - 65 
 
CONTENTS. Vll 
 
 To the Muse - - - - - 66 
 
 To the Bible - - - - - 67 
 
 To Education - - - - - 68 
 
 To Genius - - - - - 69 
 
 To a beautiful Child - - - - 70 
 
 To the English Muse - - - - 7.1 
 
 To Poetic Beauty - - - - - 72 
 
 To my Lyre - - - 73 
 
 To Melancholy ... - 74 
 
 To God - - - - - 75 
 
 To Hope - - - - - 76 
 
 To Devon - - - - - 77 
 
 To the Sea - - - - - 78 
 
 To Calais - - - - - 79 
 
 To a beautiful Apple-Tree - - - - 80 
 
 On Columbus - - - - - 81 
 
 To Evening - - - - - 82 
 
 Addressed to some French Gentlemen - 83 
 
 To Edwin - - - - - 84 
 
 To Edwin - - - - - 85 
 
 To a Lady's Goldfinch - - - - 86 
 
 To my Brother - - - - - 87 
 
 To the Rev. H. T. C. - - - - 88 
 
 Written in the College Walks at Cambridge - - 89 
 
 To Eternity - - - - - 90 
 
 To Lincoln Cathedral - - - - 91 
 
 To Don Juan Arias de Carbajal - - 92 
 
 To Thomas Moore, Esq. - - - - 93 
 
 To a Friend - - - - - 94 
 
 To St. Peter's Grove, Cambridge - - - 95 
 
 To the Villagers who brought me some flowers, &c. - 96 
 
 To the Rev. Prebendary L. - - - - 97 
 
 To the beloved Grandchild of some highly-esteemed Friends 98 
 
 To the Children of a College Friend - - - 99 
 
 To some young Ladies, my Pupils at Cambridge - 100 
 
 Addressed to a very aged couple - - - 101 
 
Mil CONTENTS 
 
 To a Village Matron - -109 
 
 To a Missionary - - - -108 
 
 To T. D. Esq. 
 
 To the Sweet-Briar 
 
 On seeing one faded leaf on a very nourishing Tree, in 
 
 Spring .... . 106 
 
 To the late Jane, Relict of J. Andrew, Esq. LL.D. - 107 
 
 To Earth ... -108 
 
 To a beautifully- limpid Stream at Chudleigh - - 109 
 
 To the Redeemer - - - - -110 
 
 To a Lady - - . - - 111 
 
 To the Deitv - - - - 112 
 
AN ESSAY 
 
 ON 
 
 THE ORIGIN, FORM, AND CHARACTER 
 
 OF 
 
 THE SONNET. 
 
 
 
 ^ The Sonnet, written strictly on the Italian model (which 
 has been adopted in Spain and Portugal entirely, and 
 in France partly) is of so difficult a construction, and / 
 has hitherto been so little understood in England^ that the 
 author has been often requested by his friends and pupils 
 to explain to them the rules for that species of compo- 
 sition, to which so much reputation was given by the 
 greatest man produced in Italy in the fourteenth 
 century — the celebrated Petrarch : that man of astonish- 
 ing and multifarious erudition } who was, says Tira- 
 boschi, in his superior work,* a philosopher, historian, 
 orator, poet, and philologist ; at once promoted sound 
 literature in every manner, and obtained for it the 
 esteem and protection of the princes of his time, to 
 whom he became singularly dear and acceptable. 
 Latin poetry was that species of metrical composition 
 to which he devoted himself with the most ardent afFec- 
 
 * La Storia della Litteratura Italiana. 
 
11 
 
 tion: but when he became enamoured of the lady, 
 whose name will ever be conjoined with his, and be dear 
 to the lovers of chaste poetry, he naturally preferred 
 giving vent to his feelings in his own language ; as such 
 a mode of expression would enable him to describe all 
 the circumstances of that pure passion with which he 
 was inspired by the beauty of her form, and by the 
 innocence and fine qualities of her mind. This Essay is 
 not intended to enter into any details respecting the 
 other species of poetry, in which Petrarch was so re- 
 markably excellent, and of which an account may be 
 seen in Sismondi.* The author here confines himself 
 to the Sonnet ; which, even to the present time, is so 
 universally adopted by Italians to express every emo- 
 tion of the heart and every circumstance of life, and 
 which can never fail to affect both the ear and heart 
 most powerfully, when it really derives its existence 
 from genuine feeling. 
 
 " The Italian sonnet is a species of composition," 
 says the author of the Life of Lorenzo de Medici, vol. i. 
 p. 272, "almost coeval with the language itself: and may 
 be traced back to the period when the Latin tongue, 
 corrupted by the vulgar pronunciation, and intermixed 
 with the idioms of the different nations that from time 
 to time overran Italy, degenerated into what was called 
 the lingua volgare ; which language, though at first 
 
 * Histoire de la Literature du Midi de l'Europe, torn i. p. 395, trails 
 lated into English l>y Thomas Roscoe, Esq. 
 
 r 
 
Ill 
 
 rude and unpolished, was, by successive exertions, 
 reduced to a regular and determinate standard, and 
 obtained at length a superiority over the Latin, not only 
 in common use, but in the written compositions of the 
 learned. The form of the sonnet, confined to a certain 
 versification and to a certain number of lines, was 
 unknown to the Roman poets, who, adopting a legiti- 
 mate measure, employed it as long as the subject 
 required it, — but was probably derived from the Pro- 
 vencals ; although instances of the regular stanza now 
 used in their compositions may be traced amongst the 
 Italians as early as the thirteenth century. From that 
 time to the present, the sonnet has retained its precise 
 form, and has been the most favourite mode of com- 
 position in the Italian tongue." In order to avoid details, 
 the author of this Essay cannot avail himself of all the 
 valuable observations of Mr. Roscoe on this subject, 
 and will merely translate a note, in which he cites a 
 remark in Italian on the sonnet by Lorenzo, who was 
 himself a writer of sonnets : — " The brevity of the] 
 sonnet admits not that one word should be in vain t 
 and the true subject and material of the sonnet ought 
 to be some pointed and noble sentiment, appropriately 
 expressed, and confined to a few verses, and avoiding 
 obscurity and harshness."* • — 
 
 " The Italians had the Sonnet from the Provencals ; 
 
 * Commento di Lorenzo de' Medici sopra i suoi Sonetti, folio 120&„ 
 Ed Aid. 1554 
 
 b2 
 
 y 
 
{ 
 
 ?> v 
 
 IV 
 
 although the present form of the sonnet has been gene- 
 rally received as of their own invention. The ancient 
 ^Provencal sonnet was a composition of twenty verses, 
 \Jfchymed alternately, in which two octo-syllabic verses 
 \ were joined to each quatrain, or quartet, and one to 
 ' each tercet. It cannot be determined with certainty who 
 was the inventor of that composition which is now 
 called the sonnet ; but we find that its perfection 
 is attributed to Fra Guittone d'Arezzo, who flourished 
 about the year 1250. There is no doubt that it is the 
 most difficult of all compositions; and its beauty con- 
 sists in concluding happily one thought in a given 
 number of verses, which correspond with each other in 
 the given number and position of rhymes : as the 
 greatest beauty of the rose consists in having issued 
 from the thorns which surround it."* 
 
 Boileau, in his Art Poetique, says sportively, that " one 
 day the god of verse invented the sonnet, to play a sad 
 trick on poets, in order that they might be reduced to 
 deep despair. " And yet what a difference between the 
 French and Italian sonnet ! 
 
 It is known by adepts that the sonnet is composed of 
 two quatrains and two tercets ; and that this form, 
 most frequently contained in four rhymes, never admits 
 
 * The above is translated from a note at p. 155 of " L'Oratore Italiano," 
 an excellent selection from the Italian writers, with good notes, &c. pub- 
 lished at Cambridge in 1810. 
 
more than Jive.* Adepts find an harmonious grace 
 in its regular cut or divisions: in its two quatrains, 
 which, on similar rhymes, exhibit the subject and 
 prepare the emotion : in its two tercets, which, by a 
 more rapid movement, answer the excited expectation, 
 complete the image, and satisfy the natural emotion. 
 The sonnet, essentially musical, essentially founded on 
 the harmony of the sounds, the name of which it bears, 
 acts on the heart much more by the words than by the 
 thought : the richness, the plenitude of rhymes, con- 
 stitute a part of its grace : the recurrence of the same 
 sounds makes an impression so much the more forcible 
 in proportion to its being more repeated and more 
 complete: — the reader is astonished at finding himself 
 moved, without almost being able to say what has con- 
 tributed to cause his emotion. 
 
 The necessity of finding many words which rhyme, 
 imposes a very great restraint on writers of English 
 sonnets. In Italian, and also in Spanish and Portuguese, 
 where almost all the syllables are simple and formed of 
 few letters, so that the words present a great number 
 of similar terminations, the difficulty is not so great as 
 in French and English, as well as the Germanic family of 
 languages, and also the Sclavonic, that is to say almost 
 all the languages of Europe. The body of the sonnet 
 is filled with some brilliant images : the last line brings 
 
 * For the substance of these remarks the author is indebted to the 
 work of Mo Sismondi. 
 
 
VL 
 
 with it an epigram, or some unexpected sentiment; or 
 some striking antithetical contrast, which for a moment 
 astonishes the mind. But, on the other hand, the 
 brevity of these poems is indubitably a reason why 
 they should be more elaborately polished. That 
 which would be overlooked or forgiven in longer 
 poems, cannot expect to escape detection or censure 
 in this, where everything appears before the eye at 
 the same instant ; and which is not written at several 
 periods, but comes at once perfect from the heart and 
 pen, like Minerva from the head of Jupiter. 
 
 Proceeding, now, to give a particular account of the 
 mechanism of the Italian sonnet, w r hich is Kar e'ioxnv, or 
 par excellence, the sonnet, it is to be observed that all 
 other kinds, whatever be the reputation w T hich they possess 
 or deserve, are not entitled to the appellation. They are 
 irregular in their structure, and rather resemble a mazy 
 wilderness than an elegantly arranged garden ; and cer- 
 tainly are devoid of that systematic form, which con- 
 stitutes the difficulty and beauty, and even essence, of 
 the sonnet. The mechanism, then, for the Italian 
 sonnet is the following: — the quatrains which form the 
 first eight verses or lines, ought to be on two different 
 rhymes, which may be arranged in three different man- 
 ners : in the first, which is the most used, the first line 
 rhymes with the fourth, the fifth, and the eighth ; the 
 second with the third, the sixth, and the seventh: in 
 the second, the first line rhymes with the third, the 
 
Vll 
 
 fifth, and seventh ; the second with the fourth, sixth, and 
 eighth : in the third, the first line rhymes with the third, 
 the sixth, and eighth ; the second with the fourth, the 
 fifth, and seventh. 
 
 With regard to the six lines of the two tercets, there 
 are also three sorts of arrangement: the lines of the 
 first tercet, in the first instance, being on three different 
 rhymes, which have their respective corresponding ones 
 in the three verses of the second, in any order whatever, 
 according to the will or necessity of the composer : 
 Secondly, of these six lines the first is made to rhyme 
 with the third and the fifth; the second with the fourth 
 and the sixth : Lastly, the first rhymes with the third, 
 fourth, and sixth, and the second only with the fifth. 
 
 These are the only methods in which the fourteen lines 
 can be arranged to make a sonnet on the true Italian 
 model, in a grand or solemn style ; or, at least, the only 
 methods for the quatrains : and although the two ter- 
 cets are less strict, yet the above are the most approved 
 modes. There is another species of sonnet, which is 
 composed in a burlesque style ; consisting of the 
 fourteen lines mentioned above as constituting the 
 regular number of lines, with an appendage of three 
 tercets : the first line rhymes with nothing ; the second 
 and third have the same sound; the first of the second 
 tercet rhymes with them : then come two lines in a 
 different rhyme, which are followed, as before, by the 
 initial of the last tercet on the same rhyme : the two 
 
Vlll 
 
 last, to complete the three tercets, rhyme together, in 
 sounds differing from the others. 
 
 There is another kind of sonnet, composed entirely 
 of lines of eight syllables, which was first introduced 
 in 1694, by Sig. Conte Sanmartino ; who, in the Arca- 
 dian Society, of which he was a member, was named 
 Lucano Cinureo. It must, however, be confessed, that 
 the invention is due to Giovanni Bruno di Rimini, in 
 whose Canzoniere, published in the year 1 505, there was 
 a sonnet wholly of octosyllabic lines.* 
 
 Sonnets, to be strictly according to the Italian model, 
 or that of the nations by whom this species of poetry 
 has been cultivated successfully, must not only have the 
 rhymes, and the quatrains and tercets, already men- 
 tioned, but the divisions must be distinct ; for, if they 
 run into each other, as is the case in very numerous, 
 almost numberless, English sonnets, they lose their 
 regular character, and assume the form of blank verse ; 
 and this is one great cause, perhaps the chief, why this 
 department of the Muse has been so little productive of 
 pleasure in this country. The ear becomes wearied, in 
 consequence of having no regular places on which to 
 rest ; and this little poem, which is susceptible of the 
 most delightful harmony, is deprived of its power of 
 pleasing, and even loses its distinct character, and its 
 pretensions to the name which it bears. 
 
 The following are examples from Petrarca : 
 
 * Vide Oratore Italiano, p. 185. 
 
IX 
 
 1. The most usual mode of the Continental arrange- 
 ments for the two quatrains, and the second mode for 
 the two tercets. 
 
 " Gli Angeli eletti, e 1'anime beate 
 
 Cittadine del cielo il primo giorno, 
 
 Che Madonna passo, le fur intorno 
 
 Piene di maraviglia e di pietate. 
 Che luce e questa, e quale nova beltate ? 
 
 Dicean tra lor, perc' habito si adorno 
 
 Dal mondo errante, a quest' alto soggiorno 
 
 Non sali mai in tutta questa etate. 
 Ella contenta haver cangiato albergo 
 
 Si paragona pur coi piu perfetti : 
 
 E parte adhor', adhor sivolge a tergo: 
 Mirando s' io la seguo, e par ch' aspetti ; 
 
 Ond' io voghe e pensier tutti al ciel ergo, 
 
 Perch'i 1'odo pregar pur, ch'io m'affretti." 
 
 2. The second mode for the two quatrains, and the 
 first for the two tercets. 
 
 IL PARAGONE DI PETRARCA. 
 
 " Giunto Alessandro alia famosa tomba 
 
 Del fero Achille, sospirando disse : 
 
 O fortunato, che si chiara tromba 
 
 Trovasti, e chi di te si alto scrisse ; 
 Ma questa pura e Candida colomba, 
 
 A cui non so, se al mondo mai par visse 
 
 Nel mio stil frale assai poco rimbomba : 
 
 Cosi son le sue sorti a ciascun fisse. 
 Chi d'Omero degnissima, e d'Orfeo ; 
 
 O del pastor ch'ancor Mantova onora, 
 
 Ch'andassen sempre lei sola cantando : 
 Stella difforme, e fato sol qui reo 
 
 Commise a tal, che il suo bel nome adora ; 
 
 Ma forse scema sue lode parlando." 
 
3. The third mode for the two quatrains, and the 
 first for the two tercets. 
 
 " In tale Stella duo begli occhi vidi 
 
 Tutti pien d'honestate e di dolcezza ; 
 
 Che presso a quei d'amor leggiadri nidi 
 
 II mio cor lasso ogni altra vista sprezza ; 
 Non si pareggi a lei, qual piu s' apprezza 
 
 In qualch' etade, in qualche strani lidi ; 
 
 Non, clii reco con sua vaga bellezza, 
 
 In Grecia affanni, in Troia ultimi stridi ; 
 Non la bella Eomana, che col ferro 
 
 Apri '1 suo casto e disdegnoso petto : 
 
 Non Polixena, Isiphile, e Argia : 
 Questa excellentia e gloria (s'i non erro) 
 
 Grande a natura, a me sommo diletto. 
 
 Ma che ? ven tardo, e subito va via." 
 
 4. First for the two quatrains, and the fourth for 
 the two tercets. 
 
 " Ne l'eta sua piu bella e piu fiorita, 
 
 Quand' haver suol amor in noi piu forza, 
 Lasciando in terra la terrena scorza 
 E Laura mia vital da me partita ; 
 
 E viva e bella, e nuda al ciel salita : 
 Indi mi signoreggia : inch' mi sforza. 
 Deh, perche me del mio mortal non scorza 
 L'ultimo di, ch'c primo al'altra vita? 
 
 Che come i miei pensier dietro a lei vanno, 
 Cosi leve, espedita, e lieta Talma 
 La segua : et io sia fuor di tanto affanno : 
 
 Cio, che s'indugia, c proprio per mio danno ; 
 Per far me stesso a me piu grave salma : 
 O che bel morir era hoggi e terzo anno." 
 
XI 
 
 The Italian models have been introduced into the 
 Portuguese and Spanish languages strictly, and into the 
 French, with the exception of the two tercets, which 
 they arrange with less care ; for instance, in the very 
 celebrated sonnet of Des Barreaux, beginning with 
 " Grand Dieu." As French is so universally known, 
 and the composition is so striking in thought, it is here 
 presented to the reader : 
 
 " Grand Dieu ! tes jugements sont remplis d'equite. 
 
 To uj ours, tu prends plaisir a nous etre propice : 
 Mais j'ai tant fait de mal, que jamais ta bonte 
 
 Ne me pardoiinera qu'en blessant ta justice. 
 Oui, Seigneur, la grandeur de mon impiete 
 
 Ne laisse a ton pouvoir que le clioix du supplice; 
 Ton interet s'oppose a ma felicite, 
 
 Et ta clemenee meme attend que je perisse. 
 Contente ton desir puisqu'il t'est glorieux : 
 
 Offense-toi des pleurs qui coulent de mes yeux : 
 Tonne, frappe, il est temps ; rends moi guerre pour guerre. 
 
 J'adore en perissant la raison qui t'aigrit : 
 Mais dessus quel endroit tombera ton tonnerre, 
 
 Qui ne soit tout couvert du sang de Jesus Christ T 
 
 The rules above have been uniformly adhered to by all 
 the writers of sonnets in those countries ; and the reader 
 is referred to the sonnets of all the Italians, Spaniards, 
 and Portuguese : to mention but a few, — Frugoni, 
 Redi, Filicaja, Sa di Miranda, (who was the introducer 
 of the Italian Hendecasyllabic poetry into Portugal and 
 Spain), Camoens, Garcilaso de la Vega, Quevedo, &c. 
 
'<> 
 
 Xll 
 
 &c. ; and all the French, with the alteration in the 
 tercets just mentioned ; and there can be no possible 
 reason alleged for a departure from the rule in any 
 manner : if the sonnet cannot be considered perfect, no 
 authority, however high, — no poetic beauty, however 
 transcendent, can legitimatize what is incorrect. 
 
 Italian was extremely studied on the revival of lite- 
 rature in this country; and the highly accomplished 
 Earl of Surrey wrote many sonnets, which it might 
 naturally be supposed would have been formed on the 
 model of Petrarch; the delicacy of whose passion for 
 Laura, which was so Platonic, might not be easily 
 imitable by those who really feel affection for a mistress : 
 but his arrangement might have been followed, without 
 which, in fact, there can be no legitimate sonnet. Those 
 of Surrey, which have the two quatrains regular, in the 
 tercets are defective, and they end with a quatrain and 
 a distich; There is tenderness in them ; and, at the 
 time of his appearance on the stage of literature, 
 they might naturally give great satisfaction, but they 
 are now little read and perhaps less admired, — indebted 
 to his muse, as England is, for showing her the way 
 which leads to poetry of a delicate character. 
 
 Both Shakspeare and Spenser, — those transcendent 
 luminaries, — those mighty masters of the art of verse, — 
 were the writers of sonnets ; but to neither of them 
 is any considerable degree of praise due for the com- 
 
Xlll 
 
 position of the sonnet, — that poetical effusion which 
 is^ for" iiunWers'^u'cii a difficult performance. Boileau 
 declares: 
 
 " Un sonnet sans defaut vaut seul un long poeme." 
 
 L'Art Poetique, Ch. II 
 
 And afterwards : 
 
 " Pour enfermer son sens dans la borne prescrite 
 La mesure est toujours trop longue ou trop petite." 
 
 This may be said both of Shakspeare and Spenser, un- 
 rivalled as they are, the former in dramatic art, which 
 in him has every species of beauty — matchless descrip- 
 tions of the charms of nature, and such a diversity 
 of talent in portraying every sort of personage, and 
 in creating beings, that in him England may proudly 
 boast of an incomparable genius ; and the latter, — 
 the highly poetical, graphic, and allegorical Spenser, who 
 knew so well how to avail himself of the finest parts of 
 Tasso, as well as of other Italian poets, and who can and 
 does afford such rich materials to the painter. Both , 
 Jailed in the sonnet, if the Con tinentalists, with Petrarch 
 at their head, are to be regarded as understanding and 
 being able to compose this little poem. The admirers 
 of both, if they have really any taste and judgment, 
 will read their compositions of this description with great 
 reluctance and regret ; sorry to see such mighty geniuses 
 struggling in vain to write a little fettered poem, while, 
 in other respects, they could achieve such great labours, 
 
 
 
XIV 
 
 and place themselves, each in his department, at the 
 head of all the bards of England. 
 
 That there is no good account of the constituents of 
 a true sonnet in English, some definitions, taken from 
 Encyclopaedias of deserved celebrity, will prove; nor 
 can the author find that any regular rule has been given 
 of the sonnet. The following are the definitions : 
 
 " Sonnet, in poetry, a composition contained in four- 
 teen verses : viz. — two stanzas on measures of four 
 verses each, and two of three: the first eight verses 
 being all in three rhymes.'' — Encyclopedia Brit. vol. 
 xix ; Oxford Encyclop. vol. vi. 
 
 " Sonnet. Sonnet, Fr. Sonnetto, Ital. A short 
 poem, consisting of fourteen lines, of which the rhymes 
 are adjusted by a particular rule. The sonnet owes its 
 origin to Italy. A small poem." — Encyclop. Land, xxiii. 
 
 " Sonnet, Sonetto, in poetry, a kind of composition 
 properly contained in fourteen verses : viz. two stanzas 
 on measures of four verses each, and two of three : the 
 first verses being all on two rhymes. 
 
 " The sonnet is of Italian origin, and Petrarch is 
 allowed to be the father of it : _itj_s held the most diffi- 
 cult and artful of all poetical compositions, as requiring 
 the utmost accuracy and exactness. It is to end with 
 some pretty ingenious thought : the close must be par- 
 ticularly beautiful, or the sonnet is defective. 
 
 " In Malherbe and some other French poets we meet 
 with sonnets where the two first stanzas are not on the 
 
XV 
 
 same rhyme : but they are held irregular, and in effect 
 great part of the merit of these pieces consists in a 
 scrupulous observance of the rules. 
 
 " Regnier, Malherbe, Maynard, and Gombaut, have 
 composed abundance of sonnets: but among two or three 
 thousand there are scarcely two or three worth much. 
 
 "Pasquier observes that Du Bellai was the first 
 who introduced sonnets into France ; but Du Bellai 
 himself says, that Merlin de S. Gelais first converted 
 the Italian sonnets into French. Of twenty-three son- 
 nets which were written by our great poet Milton, that 
 addressed to Henry Lawes is one of the best, and yet 
 this shows how difficult and unnatural the construction 
 of this poem is in the English language ; whereas, from 
 the great number of similar terminations in the Italian 
 tongue, and the success of Petrarch, it has long been 
 the favourite measure of Italy for short compositions. 
 However, Muratori thinks it extremely difficult for his 
 countrymen to make a good sonnet; and he compares 
 this kind of poem to the bed of Procrustes, where the 
 legs of those that were too short were stretched, and 
 those too long were cut to the size of the bed. *' 
 
 " Antonio a Tempo, a civilian in Padua, in his Treatise 
 on Poetry, in 1332, distinguishes sixteen different kinds 
 of sonnets." — Bumeys History of Music, vol. ii. p. 324, 
 as quoted by Dr. Rees, in his Cyclopedia, vol. xxxiii. 
 
 It must excite the astonishment of all who consider 
 the subject, that a matter of such importance in the 
 poetic department of elegant literature, and which has 
 
 ->' '- \ X- 
 
XVI 
 
 been attempted by so many very superior writers in this 
 country, should have been so little known accurately. 
 Scarcely a volume of poems appears without a speci- 
 men or two, sometimes many, of this sort of com- 
 position, which is so admirable when correct. But rare 
 indeed is the occurrence of one deserving the name 
 of a sonnet: and many an author of decidedly superior 
 natural talents, seems totally divested of them when 
 attempting the sonnet. Without entering into details 
 respecting the innumerable failures of this description, 
 let it be remembered that whatever be the poetical 
 merit of such compositions, to the character of the 
 legitimate sonnet they have no just pretensions. Even 
 the profoundly learned linguist, the late Sir William 
 Jones, who was as well versed in the Italian language 
 as his own, has but one sonnet, and that is incorrect 
 with regard to pauses. 
 
 SONNET TO G. HARDYNG, ESQ. BY SIR WILLIAM JONES. 
 
 " Hardynge, whom Camden's voice and Camden's fame 
 To noble thoughts and high attempts excite, 
 Whom thy learn' d sire's well polished lays invite 
 
 To kindle in the breast a Phoebean flame, 
 
 Oh ! rise : oh ! emulate their lives ; and claim 
 The glorious meed of many a studious night, 
 And many a day spent in asserting right, 
 
 Repressing wrong, and bringing fraud to shame. 
 
 Nor let the glare of wealth in Pleasure's bowers 
 Allure thy fancy ! Think how Tully shone ! 
 Think how Demosthenes with heav'nly fire 
 
 Shook Philip's throne and lighten'd o'er his towers ! 
 
 What gave them strength? — Not eloquence alone, 
 But minds elate above each low desire. 
 
XV11 
 
 This ignorance respecting the real constituents of a 
 sonnet has continued up to the present time ; of which 
 a proof is afforded by the Editor of the Edinburgh 
 Journal, in his remarks on the following 
 
 SONNET BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH ON THE NATURE 
 OF THE SONNET. 
 
 " Scorn not the Sonnet, Critics ; you have frown'd, A / 
 
 Mindless of its just honours. With this key CL*n>^x.-*-y%^Ou t%/& 
 
 Shakspeare unlock' d his heart. The melody 
 Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound. 
 A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound. 
 With it CamSens sooth'd an exile's grief. 
 The Sonnet glitter'd, a gay myrtle leaf, 
 Amid the cypress with which Dante crown'd 
 His visionary brow : a glow-worm lamp, 
 It cheer'd 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 
 Soul-animating sounds, alas ! too few." 
 
 " We have here." says Chambers, in the Edinburgh 
 Journal for November 3rd, 1839, "in the language of 
 its great modern master, at once a beautiful specimen 
 of the little poem called the sonnet, and some account 
 of its history. It may be described as a form of poeti- 
 cal composition, limited to fourteen ten-syllable lines, 
 containing in the best models from four to six rhymes, 
 and marked by great clearness of thought and diction, 
 oractised by Dante, Petrarch, and others of those who 
 evived letters in southern Europe; it found its way 
 
XV111 
 
 into England in the sixteenth century, when the works 
 of the Italian poets first became popular among us." 
 
 Now, as in this description there is much that is not 
 sanctioned by the legitimate writers of sonnets, and 
 which may occasion mistake in future writers, it is 
 proper to say that they need not be confined to four- 
 teen ten-syllable lines, because the Hendecasyllabic form 
 is that of Italy, Spain, and Portugal: and that it is 
 admissible in English, countless dramatic lines in Shak- 
 speare and others prove. Milton, Young, and others also 
 occasionally avail themselves of it to vary the metre; 
 and, undoubtedly, for euphony, whenever it can be in- 
 troduced into rhyme, it always, when well managed, pro- 
 duces a good effect: for example, in Lord Byron, Milton 
 (in a sonnet, as will be shown when mention is made of 
 him) and others. As for there being permission to have 
 six rhymes, there is no instance of that nature which the 
 writer of these remarks ever recollects to have seen in 
 any Italian or other classical model. Such a number 
 would entirely destroy the character of the sonnet ; as 
 the two quatrains must be on two rhymes, and the two 
 tercets cannot possibly be on more than three. Still 
 more, there is not a word mentioned respecting the 
 pauses, which are the great constituents of the harmony 
 of the sonnet. 
 
 Of the numberless early composers of sonnets in our 
 language, and of which perhaps one, now and then, may 
 be found regular, it would be impossible to make men- 
 
XIX 
 
 tion without extending this Essay beyond all reasonable 
 limits. It will sufficiently answer the purpose of the wri- 
 ter to select some : not that he by any means wishes it 
 to be understood that the omission is a proof of their 
 being unworthy of notice. He also avoids the mention 
 of authors who are still living, lest he might give offence 
 where none is intended ; and he will begin with Lord 
 Surrey, the first composer of sonnets in English. 
 
 SONNET BY LORD SURREY, 
 
 Descriptive of Geraldine, his Lady-Love ; supposed to be Lady Elizabeth 
 Fitzgerald, daughter of the Earl of Kildare, and second cousin of the 
 Princesses Mary and Elizabeth, daughters of Henry VIII. 
 
 " From Tuscan came my lady's worthy race, 
 Fair Florence was sometime her ancient seat : 
 The western isle, whose pleasant shore doth face 
 Wild Camhria's cliff, did give her lively heat : 
 For stor'd she was with milk of English breast ; 
 Her sire an earl, her dame of prince's blood. 
 From tender years in Britain she doth rest 
 With a king's child, where she tasteth costly food. 
 Honsdon did first present her to mine eyne : 
 Bright is her hue, and, Geraldine she hight. 
 Hampton me taught to wish her first for mine, 
 And Windsor, alas ! doth close me from her sight ; 
 Her beauty of kind : her virtues from above : 
 Happy is he that can obtain her love." 
 
 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY'S SONNET TO THE MOON. 
 
 " With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies ! 
 How silently, and with how wan a face ! 
 What ! may it be, that even in heavenly place 
 The busy archer his sharp arrows tries ? 
 
 c<2 
 
XX 
 
 Sure, if that boy with love-acquainted eye* 
 
 Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case : 
 
 I read it in thy looks : thy languish'd grace 
 
 To me, that feel the like, thy state descries. 
 
 Then even of fellowship, O moo> r ,-*ell me 
 
 Is constant love deem'd there for want of wit ? w* / 
 
 Are beauties there, as proud as here they be ? 
 
 Do they above live to be lov'd, and yet 
 
 Those lovers scorn, whom that love doth possess? 
 
 Do they call virtue there ungratefulness?" 
 
 SPENSER'S SONNET TO SPRING —THE IDEA BORROWED 
 FROM HORACE. 
 
 " Fresh Spring, the herald of Love's mighty king, 
 In whose coat- armour richly are display 'd 
 All sorts of flowers, which on earth do spring, 
 In goodly colours gloriously array' d : 
 Go to my love, where she is careless laid, 
 Yet in her winter bow r 'r not well awake. 
 Tell her the joyous time will not be stay'd 
 Unless she do him by the forelock take : 
 Bid her, therefore, herself soon ready make 
 To wait on Love, amid his lovely crew, 
 Where every one that misseth then her mark, w^<x/R 
 Shall be by him amerced in penance due : 
 Make haste, therefore, sweet love, whilst it is prime, 
 For none can call again the passed time." 
 
 SONNET OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 " That time of year thou may'st in me behold, 
 When yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang 
 Upon those boughs which shake against the cold ; 
 Bare ruin'd elms, where blithe the sweet birds sang. 
 In me thou seest the twilight of such day 
 As after sunset fadeth in the west, 
 Which by and by black night doth take away : 
 Death's second sell' that laveth all in rest: 
 
XXI 
 
 In me tliou seest the glowing of such fire, 
 That in the ashes of his youth doth lie, 
 
 h J 
 
 At the death-hed whereon it must expire, 
 
 Cons urn' d with that which it was nourish' d by. 
 
 This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong, 
 
 To love that well which thou must leave ere long." 
 
 SONNET BY SIR WALTER RALEIGH ON SPENSER'S 
 FAIRY QUEEN.* 
 
 " Methought I saw the grove where Laura lay, 
 Within that temple where the vestal flame 
 Was wont to burn ; and passing by that way 
 PVm^ To see that honour'd dust of living fame, 
 
 Whose tomb fair Love and fairer Virtue kept, 
 All suddenly I saw the Fairy Queen, 
 At whose approach the soul of Petrarch wept, 
 And from thenceforth those graces were not seen : 
 For they the Queen attended, in whose stead 
 Oblivion laid him down on Laura's hearse ; 
 Hereat the hardest stones were seen to bleed, 
 And groans of buried spirits the heavens did pierce ; 
 Where Homer's sprite did tremble all for grief, 
 And curs'd the access of that celestial thief." 
 
 
 
 Drummond, whose sonnets were first published in 
 the year 1616, and, as Dr. Joseph War ton has observed, 
 are exquisitely beautiful and correct, is entitled, in truth 
 to great admiration. His poems are full of sweetness, 
 native talent, and feeling;— and have a pathos and 
 
 * This sonnet and several of the following were published in an * 
 elegant little work, containing specimens of English sonnets, selected by 
 the Rev. Alexander Dyce in 1833, containing a few notes respecting 
 their authors, with a short account of sonnets prefixed ; but nothing 
 concerning their structure. 
 
XX11 
 
 greatness in their simplicity, as Todd (Milton s IVorks, 
 vol. vi. p. 443) observes, sufficient to endear the legiti- 
 mate sonnet to every reader of just taste. They pos- 
 sess a characteristic grace, which can never belong to 
 those elegiac stanzas closing with a couplet. That 
 Milton read and admired them appears by several 
 passages in his sonnets : and it is said that Gray imi- 
 tated Drummond, in his sonnet on the Death of West. 
 Two of his beautifully sweet but incorrect sonnets 
 are the following: the former, to Spring, is a close 
 imitation of Guarini, in his " Pastor Fido," where he 
 introduces Mirtillo as complaining that his joys are past. 
 
 " Sweet Spring, thou turn'st with all thy goodly train, 
 Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flow'rs ; 
 The Zephyrs coil the green locks of the plain, 
 The clouds, for joy, in pearls weep down their showers. 
 Turn thee, sweet youth ! but ah ! my pleasant hours 
 And happy days with thee come not again : 
 The sad memorials only of my pain 
 Do with thee turn, which turn my sweet to sours. 
 Thou art the same which still thou wert before : 
 Delicious, lusty, amiable, fair. 
 
 But she, whose breath embalm'd the wholesome air 
 Is gone : nor gold nor gems can her restore, 
 Neglected virtue. Seasons go and come 
 ^v&*t io.£ While thine forget me closed in a tomb." 
 
 " Thrice happy he who by some shady grove, 
 Far from the clam'rous world, doth live his own ; 
 The solitary, who is not alone, 
 But doth converse with that Eternal Lovo ; 
 
XX111 
 
 O how more sweet do birds harmonious moan, a 
 Or the hoarse sobbings of the widow'd dove, 
 Than the smooth whisperings near a prince's throne, 
 Which good make doubtful, do the evil prove ! 
 O how more sweet is Zephyr's wholesome breath, 
 \6sdL»-r^* ^nd sighs embalm jl, which new-born flow'rs unfold, 
 Than that applause vain honour doth bequeath ! 
 How sweet are streams to poisons drunk in gold ! 
 The world is full of horrors, troubles, slights ; 
 Woods, harmless shades, have only true delights." 
 
 The quatrains are not regular in one of the three 
 forms given above ; and, instead of ending with two 
 tercets, they have a quatrain and a couplet. 
 
 SAMUEL DANIEL. 
 
 " Let others sing of knights and palladines 
 In aged accents and untimely words ; 
 Paint shadows in imaginary lines, 
 Which well the reach of their high wits records : 
 But I will sing of thee, and those fail* eyes ; — 
 Authentic shall my verse in time to come, 
 When yet th' unborn shall say, lo ! where she lies, 
 Whose beauty made him speak that else was dumb ! 
 These are the arcs, the trophies I erect, 
 That fortify thy name against old age ; 
 And these thy sacred virtues must protect 
 Against the dark and Time's consuming rage. 
 Though th' error of my youth in them appear, 
 Suffice they show I lov'd, and lov'd thee dear." 
 
 MICHAEL DRAYTON. 
 
 " Why should your fair eyes with such sovereign grace 
 Disperse their rays on every vulgar spirit, 
 While I in darkness, in the selfsame place, 
 Get not one glance to recompense my merit ? 
 
XXIV 
 
 So doth the ploughman gaze the wand 'ring star, 
 
 And only rests contented with the light, 
 
 That never learnt what constellations are 
 
 Beyond the ken of his unknowing sight. 
 
 O! why should Beauty (custom'd to ohey) 
 
 To their gross sense apply herself so ill ? 
 
 Would, God, I were as ignorant as they, 
 
 When I am made unhappy hy my skill ; 
 
 Only compell'd in this poor good to boast, 
 
 Heavens are not kind to those that serve them most." 
 
 BARNABY BARNES, 
 
 A divine composer of spiritual sonnets. 
 
 " Unto my spirit lend an angel's wing, 
 By which it might mount to that place of rest, 
 Where Paradise may me relieve, opprest. 
 Lend to my tongue an angel's voice to sing! 
 Thy praise, my comfort : and for ever bring 
 The notes thereof from the bright east to west ! 
 Thy mercy lend unto my soul distrest ! 
 Thy grace unto my wits ! then shall the sling 
 Of righteousness that monster, Sathan, kill, 
 Who with despair my dear salvation dar'd, 
 And, like the Philistine, stood breathing still 
 Proud threats against my soul, for heaven prepar'd. 
 At length 1 like an angel shall appear 
 In spotless white, an angel's crown to wear." 
 
 Of the great — the transcendently great poet Milton, 
 the Paradise Lost, Comus, Samson Agonlstes, Lycidas, 
 U Allegro and 77 Penseroso, for the exquisite beauties 
 which they contain, in their several departments of 
 metrical composition, are above all praise ; and certainly 
 
 
XXV 
 
 are unrivalled in English, even if they are not in any- 
 other language. His sonnets, however, are decidedly 
 of an inferior character ; and it may be supposed that 
 the mighty genius of the author of Paradise Lost, when 
 confined within the number of fourteen lines, so 
 artfully arranged and so regularly divided as to form 
 a sonnet on the Italian, the only true model, was like 
 an eagle in a cage designed for a much smaller bird ; 
 or that Nature, who is a kind mother and hath num- 
 berless children to provide for, gives not all talents to 
 any individual. For instance, the ever-celebrated 
 author of the Gerusalemme Liberata and Aminta, whom 
 Lord Byron thus justly eulogizes 
 
 " Oh ! victor unsurpass'd in modern song !" 
 
 Childe Harold, c. iv. 39 
 
 excelled not in sonnets; neither did Ariosto; between 
 whom the best judges of Italy and Italian literature 
 know not how to determine. Garcilaso de la Vega, the 
 beautiful pastoral writer of Spain, by his small volume, 
 has procured for himself a reputation which numbers, 
 even with genius, have not been able to obtain by 
 more voluminous works, because they elaborated them 
 not; but he would never have held any high rank among 
 the favourites and cultivators of the Muses, had his fame 
 rested on his sonnets, which cannot be read without the 
 deepest pity that the author should have quitted 
 the secluded regions of rural nature, " Where ivy climbs 
 
XXVI 
 
 the trees with winding pace," " Where birds pour forth 
 their soft complaints of love," and " Where the limpid 
 waters murm'ring flow," (which are versions of some 
 of his own lines), to describe the feelings of a lover only, 
 without having the shades of the forest and the flower 
 mead to be a beautiful decoration for his scene. In 
 fact, the author seems divested of his exquisite talents 
 for versification and description when he puts on the 
 shackles of the sonnet. The same may be said of the 
 great epic poet of Portugal, few of whose sonnets ever 
 reach mediocrity, while many parts of his Lusiadas will 
 bear a comparison with the finest passages in any poem 
 in any age or country, Homer even not excepted ; for 
 instance, his beautiful episode of Inez de Castro, in the 
 third canto ; the appearance of the two rivers (the Gan- 
 ges and the Indus) to Emanuel, King of Portugal, in 
 his dream, in the fourth ; and the highly-wrought and 
 celebrated prosopopeia of the Cape of Good Hope, in the 
 fifth. Many others have been deficient in the same 
 manner in the same species of composition, however 
 they may have excelled in others : and chiefly has that 
 failure been apparent when authors whose talents fitted 
 them for detail have subjected themselves to the narrow 
 limits of a sonnet, in which Petrarch was so transcen- 
 dent, so unrivalled ; while the same cannot be said of 
 his other poetical pieces, although great praise is due to 
 his Canzoni. 
 
 The sonnets of Milton, it must be repeated, are of a 
 
XXV11 
 
 very common character; and scarcely anywhere in 
 them can be traced any features of the mighty genius 
 of their author. Well acquainted with Italian, as his 
 compositions in that language evince, and of which 
 his elegant imitations of their greatest beauties in his 
 various works, particularly in his Paradise Lost, are 
 a most convincing proof, he observes not the rules 
 laid down by the great prototype of sonnets for 
 their division. They are greatly devoid of poetic 
 charms, and it would have been, had they never ap- 
 peared, only a loss of quantity — not quality; by which 
 alone real merit is discoverable, and by which alone real 
 and permanent reputation is to be obtained. As proofs 
 of their mazy nature, the reader is referred to his 
 sonnets to the Nightingale, to the Lord General Crom- 
 well, and On his Deceased Wife, which are allowed to 
 possess as much merit as any of them ; and in the last of 
 which Milton is said by Hayley to have equalled the 
 mournful graces of Petrarch and Camoens, who have 
 each of them a plaintive composition on a similar idea. 
 " The great models for the sublime and domestic 
 sonnet," says Todd (vol. vi. 442 note) " are those of 
 Milton ' To the Soldier to spare his Dwelling-place, 
 and 'To Mr. Lawrence,' " which are here given. 
 
 WHEN THE ASSAULT WAS INTENDED TO THE CITY. 
 
 " Captain, or colonel, or knight in arms, 
 
 Whose chance on these defenceless doors may seize, 
 
 If deed of honour did thee ever please, 
 
 Guard them, and him within protect from harms. 
 
XXV111 
 
 He can requite thee ; for he knows the charms 
 That call fame on such gentle acts as these, 
 And he can spread thy name o'er lands and seas, 
 Whatever clime the sun's bright circle warms. 
 
 Lift not thy spear against the Muses' bower ; 
 The great Emathian conqueror bid spare 
 The house of Pindarus, when temple and tower 
 
 Went to the ground : and the repeated air 
 Of sad Electra's poet had the power 
 To save the Athenian walls from ruin baie." 
 
 TO MR. LAWRENCE. 
 
 4 Lawrence, of virtuous father virtuous son, 
 
 Now that the fields are dank, and ways are mire, 
 Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire 
 Help waste a sullen day, what may be won 
 
 From the hard season gaming ? Time will run 
 On smoother, till Favonius reinspire 
 The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire 
 The lily and rose, that neither sow'd nor spun. 
 
 What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice, 
 Of Attic taste, with wine, whence we may rise 
 To hear the lute well touch'd, or artful voice 
 
 Warble immortal notes and Tuscan air ? 
 
 He who of those delights can jurlge, and spare 
 To interpose them oft, is not unwise." 
 
 The beautifully correct sonnet composed by Gray, 
 and which has been very well translated into Italian, by 
 Matthias, is given here to show the superiority of 
 that which is according to the rules of art over that 
 which is not so. 
 
xxix; 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF THE HON. R. WEST. 
 
 " In vain to me the smiling mornings shine, 
 And redd'ning Phcehus lifts his golden fire ; 
 The birds in vain their amorous descant join, 
 Or cheerful fields resume their green attire ; 
 
 These ears, alas ! for other notes repine, 
 A different object do these eyes require : 
 My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine ; 
 And in my breast the imperfect joys expire. 
 
 Yet morning smiles the busy race to cheer, 
 And new-born pleasure brings to happier men ; 
 The fields to all their wonted tribute bear; 
 
 To warm their little loves the birds complain ; 
 I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear, 
 I weep the more, because I weep in vain." 
 
 The great scholar, and superior poet also, the Rev. T. 
 Warton, B.D. Fellow of Trinity College, Oxford, and 
 Poet-Laureat, might reasonably have been supposed to 
 have known all the arcana of the legitimate sonnet, 
 and to have manifested his knowledge by his practice, 
 when composing poems of that description ; but of the 
 nine sonnets which proceeded from his pen, marked as 
 they are with the stamp of poetry, they are lamentably 
 not entitled to the name of regular sonnets, because 
 they are without the proper pauses : for instance, the 
 following sonnet which he addressed to Gray. It is 
 the sixth. 
 
 " Not that her blooms are mark'd with beauty's hue, 
 My rustic muse her votive chaplet brings ; 
 Unseen, unheard, O Gray, to thee she sings, 
 While slowly pacing thro' the churchyard dew. 
 
XXX 
 
 At curfew time, beneath the darksome yew, _ qajlq. 
 
 Thy pensive genius strikes the moral strings : 
 
 Or borne sublime on Inspiration's wings, 
 
 Hears Cambria's bard devote the dreadful clue 
 
 Of Edward's race, with murders foul defil'd. 
 
 Can aught my pipe to reach thine ear essay ? 
 
 No, bard divine ! for many a care beguil'd 
 
 By the sweet magic of thy soothing lay, 
 
 For many a rapturous thought and vision wild 
 
 To thee this strain of gratitude I pay !" 
 
 Mason, the celebrated rival of Warton (the former 
 of whom wrote the Lament, the latter the Triumph of 
 Isis) published thirteen sonnets. The accompanying is 
 correct ; the others are irregular. 
 
 ON THE RIGHT REV. THE LORD BISHOP OF LICHFIELD 
 AND COVENTRY. 
 
 Prefixed to the Dramatic Poem of Caractacus, when altered for 
 stage representation. 
 
 " Still shall my Hurd, a smile of candour lend 
 To scenes that dar'd on Grecia's pinions low'r, 
 When in lone Thurcaston's sequester'd bow'r 
 He prais'd the strain because he lov'd the friend ! 
 
 There golden Leisure did his steps attend, 
 Nor had the race yet with weigh' d call of pow'r 
 To those high cares decreed his watchful hour, 
 On which fair Albion's future hopes depend !* 
 
 A fate unlook'd for waits my friend and me ; 
 He pays to duty what was Learning's claim, 
 Resigning classic ease for dignity : — 
 
 I yield my muse to Fortune's praise or blame. 
 Yet shall our hearts in this great truth agree, 
 That peace alone is bliss, and virtue fame." 
 
 * Bishop Hurd at this time was preceptor of the Prince of Wales, 
 and the Duke of York. 
 
XXXI 
 
 The following sonnet has been taken from those which 
 were written by the well-known Miss Ann Seward, (with- 
 out any choice, for they are all of the same character) in 
 order to show that this ingenious lady either knew not, 
 or deemed not indispensable, the marked divisions of the 
 Italian sonnet. The reader will observe that there is 
 no pause at the end of the fourth line, as it ought to be ; 
 neither is there any at the eleventh: consequently the 
 whole is an irregular maze. 
 
 SONNET BY ANN SEWARD. 
 Written on rising ground near Lichfield. 
 
 " The evening shines in May's luxuriant pride, 
 And all the sunny hills at distance glow, 
 And all the brooks that thro' the valley flow 
 Seem liquid gold. O had my fate denied 
 Leisure and power to taste the sweets that glide 
 Thro' kindling souls, as the soft seasons go 
 On their still varying progress, for the woe 
 My heart has felt, what balm had been supplied ? 
 But when great Nature smiles, as here she smiles, 
 'Mid verdant vales and gently swelling hills, 
 And glassy lakes, and mazy mountain rills, 9HMAAv***n»vtrp 
 And narrow wood-wild lanes, her spell beguiles 
 Th' impatient sighs of grief, and reconciles 
 Poetic minds to life with all her ills." 
 
 From the preface to Miss Seward's Sonnets, is taken 
 the following definition of the nature and perfection of 
 this kind of verse in our language, by Mr. White : — 
 " Little elegies consisting of four stanzas and a couplet, 
 are no more sonnets than they are epic poems. The 
 
XXX11 
 
 sonnet is of a particular and arbitrary construction : 
 it partakes of the nature of blank verse, by the lines 
 running into each other at proper intervals. Each 
 line of the first eight rhymes four times : and the 
 order in which those rhymes should fall is decisive. 
 For the ensuing six there is more licence : they may, or 
 may not, at pleasure, close with a couplet." 
 
 It was thought by Dr. Johnson, that in consequence of 
 \j/^\^f tne g reat number of words which must rhyme to consti- 
 pri I tute a real sonnet, its fabric is difficult, and has never 
 succeeded in English ; but Miss Seward, whose own 
 sonnets, says Dr. J. Warton, eminently confirm the 
 observation, observes that the fallacy of this remark is 
 proved by the great number of beautiful legitimate 
 sonnets which adorn our national poetry, not only by 
 Milton, but by many of our modern poets. 
 
 Of Mrs. Charlotte Smith, who acquired such deserved 
 celebrity by her poems, in consequence of their sweet- 
 ness and pathos, it must be said that they scarcely ever 
 have any higher pretension than of being called English 
 sonnets, or sonnets in the English form : namely three 
 stanzas of four lines each, independent of each other, 
 as far as the rhymes are concerned, and a terminating 
 couplet. Frequently they have the extremes of those 
 separate quartets or quatrains rhyming, and the means : 
 but at other times they consist of alternate lines which 
 rhyme, in the elegiac form: the first and third; the 
 second and fourth ; and they close with a couplet. 
 
XXX111 
 
 The celebrated authoress herself says, in the first 
 edition of the Elegiac Sonnets : — " The little poems 
 which are here called sonnets, have, I believe, no very- 
 just claim to that title : but they consist of fourteen 
 lines, and appear to me no improper vehicle for a single 
 sentiment. 1 am told, and I read it as the opinion of 
 very good judges, that the legitimate sonnet is ill calcu- 
 lated for our language." In the preface to the third edition 
 of the sonnets she says : — " A few of those last written 
 I have attempted on the Italian model ; with what suc- 
 cess I know not, but I am persuaded that to the gene- 
 rality of readers those which are less regular will be 
 more pleasing." One of those which are beautifully 
 correct, is given here. 
 
 TO MELANCHOLY. 
 
 Written on the banks of the Arun. 
 
 '• When latest Autumn spreads her evening veil, 
 And the grey inists from these dim waves arise, 
 I love to listen to the hollow sighs, 
 Thro' the half leafless wood that breathes the gale. 
 For at such hours the shadowy phantom, pale, 
 Oft seems to fleet before the poet's eyes ; 
 Strange sounds are heard, and mournful melodies, 
 As of night wanderers, who their woes bewail ! 
 Here, by his native stream, at such an hour, 
 Pity's own Otway, I methinks could meet, 
 
 And hear his deep sighs swell the saddenM wind ! 
 Oh, Melancholy ! — such thy magic power, 
 That to the soul these dreams are often sweet, 
 And soothe the pensive visionary mind !" 
 
 d 
 
XXXIV 
 
 Notwithstanding Lord Byjxmentertained such a mean 
 opinion of the merits of sonnets, and was by nature 
 and art more fitted for detail than compression, yet he 
 proved incontestably, that to a genius like his every 
 kind of metrical composition was a labour of very 
 easy achievement ; and that, had he devoted himself to 
 sonnets, he would have held a very high, even if not 
 the highest, rank as a sonnet-writer in this country. It 
 would have been desirable that the pauses had been 
 more distinct at the end of the fourth and the eleventh 
 lines, in the following sonnet, which exhibits much of 
 the character of the mighty author, and is addressed 
 
 TO GENEVRA. 
 
 " Thine eyes' blue tenderness, thy long fair hair, 
 And the wan lustre of thy features — caught 
 From contemplation — where serenely wrought, 
 
 Seems Sorrow's softness charm'd from its despair — 
 
 Have thrown such speaking sadness in thine air, 
 That — hut I know thy blessed bosom fraught 
 With mines of unalloy'd and stainless thought — 
 
 I should have deem'd thee doom'd to earthly care. 
 
 With such an aspect, by his colours blent, 
 When from his beauty-breathing pencil born, 
 
 (Except that thou hast nothing to repent) 
 The Magdalen of Guido saw the morn — 
 
 Such seem'st thou — but how much more excellent ! 
 With nought Remorse can claim — nor Virtue scorn." 
 
 It is impossible to read the works of the late poet 
 ^oleridge, whether in prose or verse, without being 
 struck with the grandeur of his ideas, and of the ex- 
 
XXXV 
 
 eellence of his heart ; and his merit is daily becoming 
 more acknowledged, and the demand for his productions 
 more general. His design was to fill the bosom with 
 the glow of virtue and religion, while he addressed 
 himself to the imagination.* He also was a writer of 
 sonnets ; but they indicate no proofs of his having 
 studied the Italian school : and he contented himself 
 with expressing his fine ideas, either in a maze resem- 
 bling blank verse, with the rhymes not regulated by the 
 models of Italy, or else he chose the English form, of 
 which the following is a very pleasing example: 
 
 SONNET VIII. 
 
 " Thou gentle Look, that didst my soul beguile, 
 Why hast thou left me ? Still in some fond dream 
 Revisit my sad heart, auspicious Smile ! 
 As falls on closing flow'rs the lunar beam : 
 What time, in sickly mood, at parting day 
 I lay me down and think of happier years, 
 Of Joys, that glimmered in Hope's twilight ray, 
 Then left me darkling in this vale of tears. 
 O pleasant days of hope — for ever gone ! — 
 Could I recall you ! — But that thought is vain. 
 Availeth not Persuasion's sweetest tone 
 To lure the fleet- winged Travellers back again : 
 Yet fair, though faint, their images shall gleam 
 Like the bright Rainbow on a willowy stream." 
 
 Mrs. Hemans, who so recently added so many bright 
 and fragrant flowers to the wreath of the English 
 Muse, and for whose loss every lover of sweet and moral 
 and religious poetry, cannot fail to experience deep and 
 
XXXVI 
 
 permanent sorrow, wrote many sonnets, which bear the 
 clear stamp of her lively genius, but, alas, they are 
 systematically irregular ! She satisfied herself with 
 correctness in the first quatrain, while in the latter 
 she only retained one rhyme of the former, and instead 
 of the other introduced a new one, and consequently 
 destroyed its character. She also did not follow the 
 Italians in her tercets, of which the following is an 
 instance. 
 
 THE LILIES OF THE FIELD. 
 
 " Consider the lilies of the field." 
 
 " Flow'rs, when the Saviour's calm, benignant eye 
 Fell on your gentle beauty, when from you 
 That heav'nly lesson for all hearts he drew : 
 
 Eternal, universal as the sky: 
 
 Then in the bosom of your purity 
 A voice he set, as in a temple shrine, 
 That life's quick travellers ne'er might pass you by 
 
 Unwarn'd of that sweet oracle divine : 
 
 And tho' too oft its low, celestial sound 
 
 By the harsh tones of work day care is drown'd 
 
 And the loud steps of vain unlisting haste ; 
 Yet the great ocean hath no tone of powr 
 Mightier to touch the soul in thought's hush'd hour 
 
 Than yours, ye lilies, chosen thus and grac'd." 
 
XXXV11 
 
 The sonnets which the author presumes to lay before 
 the public, in conformity with the advice and solicitations 
 of his friends, are strictly on the plan of those to which 
 the Lover of Laura owed his well deserved and 
 deathless celebrity, and with all the forms of both qua- 
 trains and tercets, as previously described. Some of 
 them are of Hendecasyllabic, or hypermetric verse, 
 (which is the Italian heroic metre) with the double rhyme 
 at the end of the line; for instance, those " To Gran- 
 deur," and a " Barren Scene," and " To a Lady in 
 praise of Exeter." Others are partly rhymed in that 
 manner ; as in the sonnet " To Chudleigh Rock/' " To 
 an Officer in an Indiaman," " To Devon/' and others ; 
 and being preferred by some whom the author regards 
 as judges, in them he has confined himself to a partial 
 observance of the Italian metre. 
 
 In the sonnet to his Brother, a Commander in the 
 Navy, he has taken a slight liberty with the latter ter- 
 cet, making the two first lines rhyme, and the last with 
 the concluding one of the former ; but as the Italians 
 are not so very strict with respect to the arrangement of 
 the tercets, although he candidly confesses that he does 
 not recollect one instance in which there is a precedent 
 for his arrangement, he trusts that it will not mislead 
 his readers, particularly as all the others are correct. 
 The derangement seemed to harmonise with the sub- 
 ject; therefore he wrote so, and retained it. And 
 twice, in imitation of the Continentalists, Spenser, Milton, 
 
XXXV111 
 
 Byron, and others, he has rhymed two syllables of the 
 same sound, but contrary meaning, to show their man- 
 ner : viz. sign and design, in the sonnet " On writing the 
 name of God on the Sand ;" and bare and bear, in the 
 sonnet "To the Man who was Conscience-struck at 
 Church." 
 
 For the subjects of these sonnets the author is solely 
 indebted to feeling, unprompted by art : he studied not 
 the works of others, although acquainted with the lite- 
 rature of many nations, in order to have an idea sug- 
 gested to him, and then by an artful change of words, 
 or a re-arrangement of thoughts, to endeavour to pass for 
 his own that to which he has no just claim : they are 
 realities, and if they draw but one tear from the eyes 
 of his readers (they drew many from him in the com- 
 position and re-perusal), it will satisfy him. Here has 
 been no attempt to dazzle the eye by splendour of 
 imagery, — no attempt to overpower by pomp of dic- 
 tion ; — but the object has been merely to affect the soul. 
 A total absence of art — intentional art — except perhaps 
 of that kind which most usually results from very ex- 
 tensive reading and deep thought, pervades these 
 sonnets. The author is fully sensible that this species 
 of composition is not considered as adapted to the 
 genius of the English language, and that he may not 
 be more successful than countless others of the writers 
 in this country, in entitling himself to their approbation ; 
 but he trusts that the rules which he has here laid down 
 
XXXIX 
 
 for the construction of true sonnets will suffice to inform 
 others, who may be willing to devote themselves to this 
 species of composition, so masterly when written accord- 
 ing to the exact rules of art and made the vehicle of one 
 fine thought well expressed, according to the language 
 of poetry. He trusts that the time will come when 
 every idea of their incompatibility with the genius of 
 the English language will be removed from the mind, 
 and when numberless volumes bearing this title will 
 appear in the libraries of English literature. He trusts 
 too that this volume will be treated with indulgence 
 by all who are aware of the difficulty with which 
 so many sonnets have been composed, in no forms 
 but those which were adopted by Petrarch, and followed 
 by all who have been desirous of treading in his steps. 
 It has been no easy task to make a selection from 
 the sonnets written by the author, twelve hundred, 
 at least ; for, although some may be superior to others 
 in thought and expression, yet they are all parts of one 
 whole ; and it is to be hoped that the present volume 
 will be favourably viewed by those censors of the public 
 press, the opinion of whom is so influential on the 
 minds and tastes of the great body of readers. His 
 deficiency in highly poetic diction, whether original or 
 borrowed, which is regarded by many as the essence, 
 not as the dress, of the Muse, and which would have 
 given a greater glow to his graphic pieces, the author 
 trusts will be considered as counterbalanced by the ten- 
 
xl 
 
 dency of the whole. He is proud to say, and takes this 
 opportunity of expressing his sense of the obligation, 
 that he has been eulogized by many persons of high 
 and universally admired talent; consequently he will 
 entertain hopes of a kind reception not only from his 
 numerous patrons, but also from the public, whose deci- 
 sion with respect to the present volume must regulate 
 his future plans. Tf approved, he will be induced to 
 publish other volumes : one, of subjects confined exclu- 
 sively to Chudleigh, another Literary, and a collection 
 of Miscellaneous Sonnets and Translations, in which he 
 will pay a tribute of respect to many beloved individuals, 
 whom he has been obliged to omit in the present, lest 
 it should have been almost entirely of private interest. 
 He will indulge the hope, as long as it may be pos- 
 sible, that what is designed to affect and improve the 
 heart, will not be mercilessly condemned by critics, 
 who by their profession are regarded as taking an 
 interest in the diffusion of that which is intended to 
 improve the young, and to give pleasure to those who 
 are advanced in their journey of life, and from whom 
 both Heaven and Earth justly expect the clearest 
 proofs of their not having passed their many days in 
 vain. 
 
TO THE MUSE. 
 
 What is thy purpose, melancholy Muse, — 
 That ever on my waking thoughts attendest, 
 And e'en in Slumbers hours thy magic lendest, 
 To deck the scene with Fancy's vivid hues ? 
 
 With me thou tread'st the late and early dews : 
 Thou many a ramble wild thy votary sendest: 
 Thou, who at will his pliant spirit bendest, — 
 Oh ! never to his breast thy boons refuse : — 
 
 Designest thou with bay to grace his hair, 
 And lead him to the pile by Fame erected ?— 
 Time shall alone the will of Fate declare ; — 
 
 Many alive, the gifts of Honour share, 
 Whose reign is brief; while some who were neglected 
 By their coevals, are fond Memory's care ! 
 
 B 
 
TO HOPE. 
 
 Thou hang'st thy dazzling glories in the sky, 
 Long vanish'd Hope ! once more, aye, yet once more ! 
 And fain thou wouldst attract my tearful eye, 
 As thou hast done so oft, so oft, before ! 
 
 With thine the hues of Iris cannot vie, 
 Nor those which spread transcendent beauty o'er 
 Juno's proud bird, or the rich canopy 
 Of Phoebus, when he ends his daily tour ! 
 
 Thy brilliance moves me not ! Oft have I found 
 Thy brightness evanescent as a dream, 
 When Sleep, retiring, hath our limbs unbound ; 
 
 Now it illumes the darkness, with its gleam, 
 That Grief and Fear diffuse my steps around ; 
 But soon dense shades again will hide thy beam ! 
 
TO GRANDEUR. 
 
 Say, hast thou, Grandeur, 'mid thy stores a pleasure 
 Like that of pensive Beings on the edges 
 Of lonely streams, reflecting trees — flow'rs — sedges, 
 Or when their steps the woods melodious measure? — 
 
 Or when on shady rocks, with Peace and Leisure, 
 They rapturous view, (reclining on their ledges) 
 Autumn's rich tints, or Spring's ambrosial pledges 
 Of future fruits, which yield the bees' sweet treasure? 
 
 Such bliss was mine in life's delicious morning ; 
 When oft I saw day's first and latest glory, 
 While brightest colours were the skies adorning I — 
 
 And oft I've ask'd the thoughtful young and hoary, 
 What are thy boasts, and they, thy brilliance scorning, 
 Show'd me the page of true and fictious story ! — 
 
 b 2 
 
TO KNOWLEDGE. 
 
 The first faint glimmer thro' the leafy trees 
 Reveals the coming of the Queen of Night ; 
 And how mine eye with charm'd attention sees 
 The scarcely-peeping mild celestial Light ! 
 
 There, there it rises higher by degrees ; — 
 The topmost boughs are now becoming bright 
 With the bright orb, and now itself it frees 
 From the dark screen ! 'Tis wholly now in sight ! 
 
 Thus, Knowledge, lovely to the thoughtful mind, 
 Are thy first beams ! How they its darkness cheer ! — 
 When more confirm'd still lovelier them we find ! 
 
 And what sweet bliss thou giv'st when bright appear 
 The mind's dark corners ! Thou 'rt by Heav n design'd 
 To form thy children for th' Eternal sphere ! 
 
TO RELIGION. 
 
 With ineffectual toil, the Pow'r Supreme 
 I sought along the mead which flow'rets bore ; — 
 Thro' a dense woodland ; — by a mazy stream ; — 
 On heights; — in valleys ; — by the wavy shore; — 
 
 Nor Him I found within the solar beam ; — 
 Nor in Night's radiance. What I could explore 
 I saw, with proofs of his existence teem : 
 His certain stamp it had, but nothing more ! 
 
 But thou, Religion ! canst unveil his face ! 
 Shall, then, man's bosom feel no love for thee, 
 And seek thee not within thy hallow'd place ? — 
 
 How clearly there the eye of Faith can see 
 The ever-living God of Truth — Love — Grace ! 
 There man can learn to meet Eternity ! 
 
TO AN OFFICER IN AN EAST INDIAMAN, 
 ON HIS DEPARTURE. 
 
 When, Youth I once more thou plough'st the briny deep 
 And neath thy bounding keel the waves are heaving, 
 And fast thou art thy native England leaving, 
 Fix'd on thy home the eye of fondness keep ; 
 
 Thence oft parental love will banish sleep : — 
 And thy fond friends thy fancied form perceiving, 
 Will for thine absence ceaselessly be grieving, 
 And oft will sigh for thee, and oft will weep. — 
 
 Of them be mindful too, tho' far the sails 
 Thy vessel bear along th' expanse of ocean, 
 (May Fortune fill them with auspicious gales !) 
 
 And as in Heav'n love filial much avails, 
 Pray for thy kindred with thy soul's devotion, 
 And thou wilt find Religion never fails ! 
 
TO FANCY, 
 
 ON SEEING THE WEATHER EXTREMELY FINE ON CHRISTMAS- 
 DAY : AFTER MANY DAYS OF GLOOM AND RAIN. 
 
 Fancy, was it thy thought that this fair day, 
 (A sight so new and pleasing to our eyes !) 
 Is Nature's purposed effort to display 
 At this all-hallow'd Feast, unclouded skies ? — 
 
 To this my question, thou repliest, " Yea !" 
 It matters not ; the thought I still will prize, 
 And o'er my bosom it shall hold its sway, 
 Tho' Reason may my fond conceit despise I 
 
 I marvel not that Nature takes flight 
 In making Winter almost rival Spring: — 
 Well may the landscape smile ; — the sun shine bright 
 
 It is the birthday of Salvation's King ! — 
 Heav'n's blessing, which should grateful hearts excite, 
 With voices join'd, the hymn of praise to sing ! 
 
TO THE LATE REV. HUGH JAMES ROSE, B.D. 
 
 PRINCIPAL OF KING'S COLLEGE, LONDON, ETC. ETC. 
 
 'Mid Granta's sons, who throng'd thy words to hear, 
 Servant of Christ, in blessed Mary's fane, 
 None heard them ever with more heedful ear;— 
 None, more than I, instruction strove to gain. 
 
 Thou sawest down my cheek the frequent tear 
 Of rapture roll while list'ning to thy strain : 
 Thy strain so grand,— so solemn,— so sincere ! 
 Truth with thy tongue could never plead in vain. 
 
 Thy sage advice oft since, with reverent eye, 
 Well pleased I've read, so faithfully it shows 
 To Jesus' priests to teach, and live, and die; — - 
 
 But since Life's spark no longer in thee glows, 
 And blessed now thou art eternally, 
 Thy works I more and more shall prize, loved Rose ! 
 
ON THE APPROACH OF WINTER. 
 
 The mourning groves assume a deeper cast : 
 Wild-birds no longer warble in their bow'rs : 
 The wither 'd foliage rustles with the blast, 
 And, oft, is laid upon the ground, in show'rs ; 
 
 The landscape's glowing tints diminish fast ; 
 The sadden d sky with brooding tempests Iow'rs ; 
 The verdant beauties of the meads are past, 
 And bees forsake their pale and scentless flow'rs ! 
 
 Incessant is the change of nature's round !— - 
 At first, sweet Spring expands the blossoms gay, 
 And with her vivid colours paints the ground ; — 
 
 Then, o'er the scene bright Summer holds his sway ; 
 Next, Autumn bids Pomona's gifts abound, 
 And lastly, Winter rules the cheerless day ! 
 
10 
 
 ON A LOCK OF A DEPARTED FATHER'S HAIR, ADDRESSED TO 
 HIS SHADE : WRITTEN FOR A YOUNG LADY'S ALBUM. 
 
 On the loved lock which graced thy reverend head, 
 
 my lost Father ! whom I held most dear, 
 
 1 drop full oft the grief-expressing tear ! — 
 
 Why art thou number'd with th' unconscious dead ? — 
 
 Thy hallow'd place of rest I often tread, 
 In silent night's dark hours, devoid of fear ; — 
 Thee I again would see ; thy voice would hear, 
 And sigh to share thy darkness-covered bed ! — 
 
 Departed Sire, forgive my poignant woe ! 
 Forgive me, if I would thy soul recal, 
 And once more make thee human sorrows know ! 
 
 Thou, sainted One ! art now where amaranths blow 
 In Heav'n's fair bow'rs, where bliss is felt by all ! 
 Bliss not to be conceived by us below. 
 
11 
 
 ON A STREAMLET. 
 
 The headlong rill which hurries down the steep, 
 And thro' a rocky valley gurgling flows, 
 Until within a lake its waters sleep, 
 Mortals invites to yield to soft repose : 
 
 An angel to the heedful pilgrim show r s 
 Reflection, who doth near her vigils keep, 
 And while her face with heavenly feeling glows 
 She speaks, and Naiads, sitting round her, weep: — 
 
 " Thine hours, O mortal, hurry, as this stream, 
 " Onward, and never, never will return : 
 " Thy life, alas ! is fleeting like a dream : 
 
 " Soon will thy name be drawn from Death's huge urn, 
 " And then thy tongue will sing th' angelic theme, 
 " Or fire for aye will round thy spirit burn !" 
 
12 
 
 ON SEEING A VERY OLD VILLAGER EXTREMELY ATTENTI\£ 
 AT CHURCH. 
 
 I marvel not, old rustic, that thine ear 
 Is so upraised, and on thy wrinkled face 
 Delight is visible, while a theme so dear 
 As Heav'n, employs my tongue in this blest place. 
 
 Long hast thou worshipp'd God in holy fear ; 
 Long hast thou felt the influence of his grace ; 
 Thy days are full-nigh spent, and Heav'n's bright sphere 
 Richly will pay thee for thy godly race. 
 
 A pauper's garb thy bending form invests : 
 Hoary and old, not less by toil than years, 
 ^nd every look thy poverty attests : 
 
 Much thee I love to view : and oft mine ears 
 Thy godly converse heed. On thee peace rests ; — 
 In righteous age what dignity appears ! 
 
13 
 
 WRITTEN AT VERSAILLES, IN THE SLEEPING-ROOM OF THE 
 UNFORTUNATE LOUIS XVI. 
 
 Thy boons, O Fortune ! are uncertain things, 
 And oft, like tempest-driven vapours, flee. 
 Jewell'd and gorgeous-robed and potent kings, 
 No more than lowly rustics are to thee ! 
 
 This to my thought the scene before me brings ; 
 The murder'd sov reign's chamber now I see ! 
 Here Peace o'er him asleep outspread her wings : 
 Here oft he, pious, bent to God his knee ! 
 
 Born in the splendid scenes of royal pow'r, 
 Destined he seem'd to fill a stedfast throne, 
 Whereon the clouds of woe would never low'r ; 
 
 But what a horror-fraught reverse was shown ! 
 A prison saw him linger many an hour : — 
 A bloody death ! — May it his sins atone ! 
 
14 
 
 THE RETURN OF SPRING. 
 
 No more wild Winter thro' the skies careers ; 
 Now Desolation stays her baleful wings : — 
 See, Nature all her treasures forward brings ; — 
 Now the green-vestur'd season re-appears ! 
 
 The voice of God the wildest tempest hears, 
 And sinks to rest ! Hark ! how the woodland rings 
 When morn awakes her minstrels carollings, 
 And with her smiles the whole creation cheers. 
 
 Balm-dropping Zephyrs speed their sportive way, 
 O'er regions richly deck'd with Floras train. 
 How azure is the sea ! How bright the day ! 
 
 Tranquillity like this will ever reign 
 Where saints etherealized the Lord obey, 
 And join his angels in their rapturous strain ! 
 
15 
 
 TO MEDITATION. 
 
 O Meditation ! deign with me to stray, 
 Whether the dale or billowy shore I tread, 
 Or thro' the mead with painted blooms bespread, 
 Or thro' a shady wood I bend my way : — 
 
 Whether the scene be bright with Phoebus' ray, 
 Or whether Night hath glittering o'er my head 
 Her silv'ry moon display 'd of Him instead, 
 And stars by myriads almost rival day ! 
 
 Then, while by thee my soul His pow'r is taught, 
 Who with His word made all these wonders fair, 
 And drew Existence from the gulph of Nought ; 
 
 How canst thou fail to lead my steps to Pray'r, 
 That with her aid His favour may be sought 
 To shield me ever with His heav'nly care ? 
 
16 
 
 TO THE DEITY. 
 
 What tongue, O God ! thy mercy can declare ? 
 What heart conceive for guilty man thy love ? 
 Thou show'st thy glory in the scene above, 
 In glitt ring orbs, bright clouds, and rainbows fair ! 
 
 The World thou deckest with especial care ; — 
 Wonders await us ev'ry step we move ; — 
 Nature a web of loveliness hath wove 
 To spread o'er earth — o'er ocean's tracts —o'er air ! 
 
 Thy grandeur in Creation's forms appears 
 To make man praise Thy name, and long to view 
 Thy face effulgent in th' angelic spheres : — 
 
 But more the Gospel Thee to man endears : 
 There Jesus points to Heav'n the passage true, 
 Who died to change to peace the sinner's fears I 
 
17 
 
 TO THE MUSE. 
 
 On my young cheek a smile was wont to play, 
 When tenderly, loved Muse ! my mother cried, 
 « Winter, dear boy ! now rules the cheerless day ! 
 " Then wherefore seek the rock or streamlet's side ?" 
 
 .She knew not that my bosom own'd thy sway ; 
 That to thy shade-embosom'd seat I hied, 
 When from my father's door I sped my way ; — 
 She knew not why at home so oft I sigh'd ! 
 
 Thy sylvan residence I eager sought, 
 Led by a Spirit, thro' the murkiest night; 
 To be by thee the charms of Nature taught; — 
 
 All objects touch'd by thee seem'd heav'nly bright 
 A force unknown thou gav'st to ev'ry thought, 
 And madest Poesy my chief delight ! 
 
 c 
 
18 
 
 TO THE LIFE BOAT. 
 
 Thou Boat, by Science taught to ride the waves 
 And stem the fury of th' impelling blast 
 Which o'er the billowy mountain-masses raves, 
 While on the tost bark Pity looks aghast ; — 
 
 Thy buoyant form the struggling seaman saves, 
 When Death, to seize his prey, approaches fast; — 
 Preserved from Ocean's sightless, dripping caves, 
 His God he thanks for every peril past ! 
 
 Faith, like thyself, can snatch from Time's vast deep 
 All who thro' perils, steer their course to gain 
 HeavVs peaceful shores, when storms its billows sweep! 
 
 Access may millions to her bark obtain, 
 And with delight and grateful feelings weep, 
 When they have reach'd th' Eternal's blest domain ! 
 
19 
 
 TO MEMORY. 
 
 Thou, viewless Power, who canst with magic art, 
 Bring close the distant and the lost restore, 
 Perform for me thy marvel-working part, 
 And let me see my youth and home once more ! 
 
 Let me, in thought, the meadows wander o'er, 
 Where others and myself, with buoyant heart, 
 Sported, when all the gloss of freshness wore, 
 And Mirth with flow'rets cover'd Sorrow's dart. — 
 
 My wish thou hast fulfilled ! Lo I here I see 
 My boyhood's scenes array 'd in verdant vest: — 
 Again we all are full of guileless glee: — 
 
 We range the wood, we climb the lofty tree. 
 The starting tears my inward joy attest — 
 Then, oh ! accept my thanks, dear Memory ! 
 
 c2 
 
20 
 
 TO MY DEPARTED BROTHER. 
 
 Thou ever wast a treasure in my sight, 
 My dear, dear Brother ! torn by Fate away, 
 Long ere thy life had reach'd its middle day, 
 My richest treasure, and my best delight ! — 
 
 Oft by thy side I trod the rocky height, 
 And join'd with thee in youth-delighting play : — 
 With thee I bent beneath Instruction's sway : — 
 Who could, like thee, mine utmost powers excite ? — 
 
 Thou hadst my love ! this well to thee was known : 
 But could I raise thee from thy clay-cold bed, 
 It should by words and actions more be shown ! 
 
 With thee, pure Friendship seems, dear Spirit! flown ; 
 But though a myriad prized me in thy stead, 
 All, all I would resign for thee alone ! 
 
21 
 
 TO THOUGHT. 
 
 Ah ! what an ever-restless thing art thou, 
 O Thought ! in one brief moment how thou fliest ! — 
 Now o'er wild Ocean's briny waves, and now 
 The darksome caves in Earth's deep breast thou spiest ! 
 
 Now 'neath the woodland's green and shadowy bough 
 Heeding the linnet's lay of love, thou liest 1 
 Now where fierce Sol lays bare the mountain's brow- 
 Now where the icebergs chilling rise, thou hiest ! 
 
 Reflection, thy sage mistress, is asleep ! — 
 Then, till she wake, obey the voice of Folly, 
 And urge thy flight thro' th' air, and earth, and deep; 
 
 Back she will bid thy rapid pinions sweep, 
 And yield thee soon to chast'ning Melancholy, 
 Who, for thy roaming, thee will force to weep I 
 
22 
 
 ON RECOVERING FROM VERY SERIOUS 
 ILLNESS. 
 
 Again I can inhale the balmy breeze : — 
 What a blest change for fever's noisome room ! 
 Again mine hands with rapturous touch can seize 
 The lovely flowers which all the air perfume ! 
 
 All Nature seems with wonders new to bloom, 
 And, more than wont, to clothe the fields and trees 
 With verdure ; while the joyous birds resume 
 Their lays, — the wood, and dale, and sky to please. 
 
 O Power benign (whose rule o'er all is spread 
 For all creation's weal), Thou, oft before, 
 Hast deign'd to raise me from a suffring bed ! 
 
 But, if I thee forgot when pain was o'er, 
 Henceforward, may my steps by Grace be led, 
 Nor e'er transgress thy least injunction more! 
 
9$ 
 
 TO SYMPATHY. 
 
 If, wash'd by rolling billows to the shore, 
 I, not unmoved, the gasping shell-fish see, 
 Thou inmost tenant of my bosom's core, 
 Heav'n-born and heav'n-delighting Sympathy ! 
 
 In what proportion should I feel the more, 
 Thy sway resistless exercised in me, 
 When human anguish trembles at my door, 
 In every varied form of misery ? 
 
 Were Fortune kind, that pleading ne'er in vain 
 Would be : Thou know'st the secrets of mine heart ; 
 That ne'er I aid refuse, devoid of pain ; — 
 
 But even then the source of bliss thou art : 
 My heart's approval is my constant gain, 
 With which, for nought terrestrial, I would part! 
 
24 
 
 TO GOD. 
 
 A hallow'd name I wrote upon the sand 
 Of the sea-marge. Eternal Sire ! 'Twas thine ! 
 And oft I view'd the labour of mine hand, 
 To see if well were form'd each sacred sign ! 
 
 Deep all were drawn, and would, I hoped, withstand 
 The flood returning of the wavy brine ; — 
 But back it hasted to the bounds of land, 
 And swept away each trace of my design ! — 
 
 'Tis thus, O heav'nly Father ! on mine heart 
 Thy finger, as on stone in days of yore, 
 Inscribeth oft how good and great Thou art ; — 
 
 But soon life's billows sweep its tablet o'er : 
 Then, then all vestiges of Thee depart, 
 And I am left the ravage to deplore I 
 
25 
 
 TO NATURE. 
 
 Nature (by Heaven directed), how thine hand 
 From Spring to Autumn, dresses meads and dells, 
 And all Earth's tracts, with Flora's beauteous bells, 
 While bees, delighted, see their stores expand! — 
 
 Thou, also, Ocean deck'st at Heav'n's command ;- 
 And when he shoreward, at thy bidding, swells, 
 He throws out countless glossy, painted shells, 
 To strew with lovely shapes the naked sand ! — 
 
 With fragrance-teeming flowers they cannot vie 
 The smell to charm, but bear the palm from them 
 For one attraction ; — still they please the eye ! — 
 
 While Flora's boasts soon wither on their stem, 
 And emblems are of man's mortality, — 
 Shells form the Seas unchanging diadem ! 
 
26 
 
 TO A FRIEND. 
 
 The lovely goddess of the humid bow, 
 Had arch'd her brightest hues in cloudy air, 
 And shed a wondrous grace on all below, 
 Making, like magic, charmless objects fair. 
 
 Mine heart again soon urged me to repair 
 Where I had felt the poet's transport-glow, 
 But I, alas ! no more found pleasure there ; 
 Iris had vanished with her painted show. 
 
 Accomplish'd friend, thus when I view'd with thee 
 The scenes, which were of loveliness devoid, 
 Therein mine eye was wont a charm to see : 
 
 But gone art thou, who wast so dear to me : 
 Thine absence hath th' illusive spell destroy'd ; 
 Careless or loathing, from them now I flee ! 
 
27 
 
 TO HUMAN ELOQUENCE. 
 
 Ere, Human Eloquence ! thy pow'r I knew, 
 Nature's sweet accents charm'd my soul to tears ; 
 Sublime instruction, in her haunts, I drew 
 From the soft sounds which struck not Echo's ears ! 
 
 And I imagin'd from the warbling spheres 
 Music came down to earth ; and thus I grew 
 Daily more raptured, from my boyhood's years, 
 And I to Solitude, delighted, flew ! 
 
 The voices which in lonely scenes I heard, 
 From Nature's works sent forth, by me, then were 
 Far, far to every human sound preferr'd ; 
 
 They taught me that creation's forms are fair ; 
 From vice and ignorance my soul deterr'd, 
 And bade me make God's will my chiefest care ! 
 
28 
 
 TO THE SEA. 
 
 COMPOSED AT DYMCHURCH, DURING VERY TEMPESTUOUS 
 WEATHER. 
 
 In pensive mood I tread the windy shore, 
 Where the swoll'n, lashing billows meet mine eyes ; 
 Breathless I hear their loud continuous roar ; 
 And the light sand, in clouds, beside me flies : — 
 
 The harsh-voiced sea-birds 'mid the black clouds soar; 
 And while I pray for all whose passage lies, 
 O storm-beat Ocean-brine ! thy surface o'er, 
 Would that my musings here could make me wise ! 
 
 Tho' in the bounds of time, I seem alone ! 
 Man and his works are hidden from my view ! 
 Away the ships which strew'd thy breast are flown : 
 
 Then may th' Eternal make mine heart his throne, 
 And with his unction sweet my soul imbue, — 
 That unction which to heavenly ones is known ! 
 
29 
 
 FANCY. 
 
 Fancy, one morning, led me to a height : 
 h seern'd not earthly, 'twas so wondrous fair ; 
 Flow'rs, woods, and streams, were offer d to my sight, 
 And birds of gayest plumes attuned the air ; 
 
 The sun, unclouded, show'd his golden hair : 
 The summer skies with heaven's choice blue were bright 
 And loveliest spirits bade me welcome there, 
 With rosy wreaths and robes of purest white ! 
 
 I was too happy, — when a cloud was seen ; 
 It burst, and thence a fiend ('twas Sorrow !) flew, 
 And in her hand she bore her weapon keen : 
 
 She pierced me, and a chain around me threw, — 
 Ruthless she dragg'd me from that world serene : 
 Now nought but gloomy objects meet my view. 
 
30 
 
 TO THE EAGLE. 
 
 Thou. Eagle, monarch of the feathery race ! 
 When sailing thro' the liquid-bosom'd sky, 
 View's t stedfastly the fount of light on high, 
 While other creatures shun his radiant face : 
 
 Thus on the ever- beaming Sun of grace, 
 So fraught with all-transcendant pow'r, may I, 
 My view delighted rivet, till I die, 
 And enter on mine endless dwelling-place. 
 
 The beauteous orb that fills the world with light, 
 But cannot with his splendour dazzle thee, 
 At length will set in never-ending night ; 
 
 The Sun of righteousness will e'er be bright ; 
 And oh, how blest will be eternity 
 Where his effulgence aye will cheer the sight ! 
 
31 
 
 TO THE MUSE. 
 
 O Muse ! oft have I wish'd th' enrapturing fire, 
 Which in choice bards thou kindlest, fill'd my breast! 
 Then what bold strains would issue from my lyre ! 
 Now humble lays my trivial pow'rs attest : 
 
 But by the dangerous boon which I require, 
 My feeble reason might be quite opprest, 
 And life itself beneath thy sway, expire ! 
 Thou art for nobler souls a fitter guest ! 
 
 Thus she of Thebes, with Jove dissatisfied, 
 Thro' jealous Juno's art, because he came 
 Man-like to her, for him as Thunderer sigh'd ! 
 
 But when her pray'r he granted, and in flame 
 And his own splendour sought her, straight she died,- 
 Heav'n's blaze to ashes turn'd her earthly frame 1 
 
32 
 
 TO A BLACKBIRD, 
 
 WHICH WAS SINGING IN MY GARDEN AT CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 Sweet bird, which sitting on a poplar near, 
 Warblest from ruddy morn to ev'ning grey, 
 I drink thy music with delighted ear, 
 And sigh when duty calls my steps away ; 
 
 To me, an artless boy, such notes were dear, 
 And summer oft, whole days, beheld me stray 
 In Chudleigh's fairy woods and dells, to hear 
 Thy jetty kindred sing their mellow lay ! 
 
 There they are pouring still their liquid strains ; 
 And Nature still is list'ning to their song, — 
 While Spring with verdure clothes the hills and plains. 
 
 No more to me the heartfelt joys belong, 
 Of wand 'ring where spontaneous beauty reigns, 
 Sooth'd with the music of the plumy throng ! 
 
33 
 
 TO GOD. 
 
 Luna sits cloudless on her car of light, 
 And hark ! the peal of yonder steeple bells 
 Is echoing from the woodlands, hills and dells, 
 And seems design'd to lull the rest of night ! 
 
 s 
 
 See ! countless stars, far more than diamonds bright, 
 Rolling, as He their various orbs impels, 
 Who in heaven's highest glory ever dwells, 
 Glory, too great for even angels' sight ! 
 
 To hallow'd themes this scene my soul inclines ; 
 Pleased she indulges them, and ev'ry care 
 Which earthward would attract her, she resigns. 
 
 Hear, Lord Almighty ! hear this fervent pray'r : 
 Tho' in life's pilgrimage she mourns and pines, 
 May she, at last, thine amaranth garland wear ! 
 
 D 
 
34 
 
 TO A LADY, 
 
 ON SEEING A BEAUTIFUL PORTRAIT OF HER, BY KIRKBV 
 
 Sensations of delight pervade my breast, 
 When gazing on thy picture, valued friend ! 
 Thou sittest there in Nature's tints confest : 
 Tints which the painter can so sweetly blend : 
 
 So perfect are the features, coif and vest, 
 That Fancy bids me to the words attend 
 Which by thy lips, all-living, are addrest 
 To those who view it. I mine ear will lend. — 
 
 No voice is heard ; but such is Fancy's spell, 
 Methinks the silence marks a mother's mind : 
 Musing on those her bosom loves so well ! 
 
 Oh ! what soft language in those eyes I find ! 
 They, worthy lady, need no tongue to tell 
 How good thou art ! How pious, meek, and kind ! 
 
35 
 
 TO MY BELOVED MOTHER. 
 
 By thee, dear Mother ! o'er whose darksome bed, 
 Summer now pours his beams in vain — by thee 
 Gladly mine infant love of flow'rs was fed ; 
 Their varied loveliness thou shew'dst to me : 
 
 By thee my steps through flow'ry tracts were led, 
 Where ne'er mine eye could aught but beauty see. 
 Throughout our home, exotics perfume shed, — 
 In sooth, it was fair Flora's treasury ! 
 
 Thy love and use of Heaven's blest means of grace. 
 Faith bids me trust, have placed thee with thy God, 
 Where flow'rs unfading deck the lovely place : 
 
 Oh, when I've closed my toilsome earthly race, 
 With thee may those bright scenes by me be trod,— 
 With thee may I behold th' Eternal's face ! 
 
 2 D 
 
36 
 
 TO CHUDLEIGH. 
 
 Too much I prized thee, spot, where I was born : 
 A spot whose charms the Muse admiring sees : 
 Thy woods, thy dales, thy rocks, thy meads, where bees, 
 Till Even's hours, are brisk from earliest Morn. 
 
 All other scenes I well nigh view'd with scorn : 
 Low seem'd the heights : all pale the greenest trees : — 
 Less sweetly sang the birds and play'd the breeze : 
 And of the rose I only saw the thorn. 
 
 This mark'd, displeased, th' Almighty One on high, 
 Whose lowest work a wondrous pow'r displays, 
 And calls for Admiration's stedfast eye: 
 
 From thee apart He bade me pass my days. 
 Hopeless of thee I think, and weep and sigh : 
 And, like a vulture, Sorrow on me preys. 
 
37 
 
 TO A LADY. 
 
 Lady ! the more we view th' expanded rose, 
 The richer is she found in brilliant dyes ; 
 More lavish charms her scented folds disclose 
 To fascinate th' observer's rapturous eyes. 
 
 Thus, when thy mental flow'rs I scrutinize, 
 On me the search a greater meed bestows ; 
 Their varied loveliness still more I prize ; 
 I see thy charms a beauteous whole compose : — 
 
 But as mine eye thy worth and talents views, 
 Tracing with rapture multiplied thy store, 
 A tear of soft regret its lid bedews ; 
 
 Deeming this bliss, alas ! will soon be o'er, 
 And Fate obdurate will the boon refuse 
 Ever to gaze upon thy lustre more ! 
 
38 
 
 TO THE SEA. 
 
 Thou, with thy mirror, dost reflect, O Sea I 
 That mirror which extends from pole to pole, 
 The tints of thy celestial canopy, 
 Which, varying constantly, affect thy whole ! 
 
 How, Proteus-like, thou typifiest the soul, 
 Which bears the stamp of sweet serenity, 
 When 'neath Religion's sway her passions roll I 
 Sin is to her what tempests are to thee ! 
 
 When thy wide realms are one continuous blue, 
 Then Peace seems seated with thee on thy throne, 
 And, charm'd, mine eyes your joint dominion view; 
 
 And higher transport by my heart is known, 
 When on its tablet shineth Heav n's own hue, 
 And all distaining clouds away are flown ! 
 
39 
 
 TO THE FOUR GREAT POETS OF ITALY, DANTE, PETRARCA, 
 
 ARIOSTO, AND TASSO *. MEDALLIONS OF WHOM HANG OVER 
 THE MANTEL-PIECE OF MY STUDY, AT DYMCHURCH. 
 
 Great Tuscan poet, by thy father-land, 
 For peerless grandeur justly styled divine : 
 And thou, who wilt for aye unrivalled stand 
 For sweet chaste sonnets hung on Laura's shrine : 
 
 Thou, who hadst Fancy ever at command, 
 And bright for chivalry wilt always shine : 
 And thou, Christ's pious bard, whose magic hand 
 Struck Truth's own lyre in rescued Palestine ! 
 
 Italia's boasts ye are ; and one small part 
 Of your high worth,— -your Heav'n- descended fire, 
 Might satisfy a glory-loving heart. 
 
 Yet might I aim to sweep the Muse's lyre, 
 Like one of you, by Nature blest and Art, 
 Tasso ? 'twere thee I— -What more could bard desire ? 
 
40 
 
 TO TASSO, 
 
 ON READING HIS LAMENT, AS IT IS EXPRESSED BY 
 THE UNRIVALLED LORD BYRON. 
 
 Like thee, great Tasso, — as our Harold tells 
 In thy Lament, which ever dims mine eyes 
 With rapturous dew-drops, and mine heart compels 
 To force a passage for a thousand sighs : — 
 
 Like thee, from childhood's years I loved the dyes 
 Which Nature paints on Flora's rural bells, 
 And rocks and woods, with waving canopies, — 
 And there e'en now my spirit fondly dwells : 
 
 Like thee, I Nature loved, and cull'd the flow'rs 
 Wherewith she deck'd her scenes ; and oft I lay, 
 In her wild haunts entranced, unbroken hours ! 
 
 Like thee, if Genius fired me with her ray, 
 Bonds had I scorn 'd, the mean oppressor's powers, 
 Night's hideous dreams, and the long griefs of day. 
 
41 
 
 TO THE BAY-TREE. 
 
 Must thou by me, O rapture-waking Bay ! 
 Whose foliage poet-brows so envied graces, 
 Be sought thro' deserts wild, in dang'rous places ? 
 To thee, ne'er wearied, I will urge my way ! 
 
 And when arrived where bright thy boughs display 
 Their verdant leaves, tho' forms with fiercest faces 
 Themselves present, whereat chill Terror chases 
 Backward such crowds, I will no fear betray ! 
 
 Fain would I carry to my native scene 
 Thy glorious wreath, and on a tree suspending 
 The trophy — proud the Genius were, I ween ! 
 
 And to my joyful words his audience lending, 
 Grateful he would accept the off ring green, 
 And vow to me affection never-ending ! 
 
42 
 
 TO MY SOUL. 
 
 I love to sit and watch the kindling flames, 
 Bursting from 'neath the incumbent heavy mass 
 Of the mine's gift : then Thought my bosom claims, 
 And earth's illusions swift as shadows pass ; 
 
 Then I behold myself in wisdom's glass : 
 Then Wealth, and Pomp, and Grandeur (specious names ! 
 Which vitiate oft the sons of men,) alas ! 
 I value not : tho' Time my Judgment blames ! 
 
 And then I turn to thee, thou Soul of mine ! 
 And ask thee whither thou dost also rise, 
 'Bove the dense masses which thy pow'rs confine ? 
 
 And bid thee break Sin's chain and seek the skies, 
 Like yon material flames, which brightly shine ; 
 For ever cleansed from all impurities ! 
 
43 
 
 TO BOTANY. 
 
 Mine infant love of flow'rs each summer gain'd 
 In me th' ascendency o'er all beside : 
 And, flush'd with hope, to pastoral spots I hied, 
 Or shore, or mountain, which their charms contain'd : 
 
 For them I many a boyish sport disdain'd, 
 Tho' with each other for mine heart they vied : 
 Each after each, have all my pleasures died, 
 But this sweet source of transport is not drain'd ! 
 
 Thou, Botany ! hast long to me display 'd 
 The lovely structure of innum'rous flow'rs, 
 And of amusement hast instruction made. 
 
 No objects more reveal th' Almighty's pow'rs : 
 By none more pleasure is to man convey'd : 
 None more deserve the pensive student's hours ! 
 
44 
 
 THE WIDOW'S SON AT NAIN. 
 
 Th' Eternal's Christ, who down from Heav'n was sent, 
 To bring this suffering world a cure for woe, 
 Thro' Palestine his course of mercy bent ! 
 Death fled before his steps, tears ceased to flow. 
 
 To Nain he came : — Hark to that loud lament ! 
 See that funereal train advancing slow ! 
 A widow's son demands affliction's vent : 
 Her feeble spirit sinks beneath the blow ! 
 
 Praised be the Lord of Heav'n : his blessed Son, 
 This mournful scene converts to peace and joy : 
 His sov'reign will, as soon as said, is done I 
 
 Th' enraptured mother clasps her living boy : 
 Awe and delight thro' all the assembly run ! 
 Their tongues in wonder, all, and praise employ ! 
 
45 
 
 TO IMAGINATION. 
 
 Nought it imports with whom thy votaries dwell, 
 Imagination I or what scenes they view : 
 Thou art the mistress of a potent spell, 
 And all things canst destroy, and form anew : 
 
 The waste, by thee, becomes the bow'ry dell ; 
 The marsh, adorn'd with flow'rs of ev'ry hue ; 
 The plain thou biddest into mountains swell, — 
 Founts gush in deserts, — gems thou form'st of dew ! 
 
 And for thy wondrous newly-moulded scene, 
 Thou canst therein meet habitants prepare ; 
 Angels in intellect — in will — in mien, 
 
 ' How much I love thee may my verse declare ! 
 E en from my boyhood's days I thine have been, 
 And may I be till death thy constant care I 
 
46 
 
 TO A ROSE-TREE. 
 
 Oft on thy charms, lov'd tree ! mine eye would rest. 
 When in sweet Spring, and Summer's gladsome days, 
 In Flora's brilliant robe I saw thee drest, 
 And thee the sun adorn 'd with vivid rays ! 
 
 When those bright hues were fled, and thy gay vest 
 Of red was gone, still I was wont to gaze 
 On thy green foliage, pleased : now Time's behest 
 That, too, hath soil'd ! Thine ev'ry charm decays ! 
 
 Thus 'twill be soon with me ! Past are life's flow'rs, 
 And less its leaves display of cheerful green 
 Than in fair youth, — and Autumn o'er me low'rs. 
 
 Of freshness stript, my form will soon be seen, — 
 Age with chill hand will wither all my pow'rs, 
 And leave no trace behind of what has been ! 
 
47 
 
 TO RELIGION. 
 
 WRITTEN ON A SUNDAY. 
 
 I on my flageolet would gladly play 
 A solemn strain, my humble soul to raise, 
 One soothing to mine heart : a song of praise. 
 While eve is closing in this hallow'd day. 
 
 But all the sounds are wildly blown away 
 By the rude blast, which Music's ear dismays ; 
 While the near sea its turbulence obeys, 
 And earth is troubled by their two-fold sway. 
 
 Religion ! this an emblem is of thee : 
 When thou to man would'st fervently rehearse 
 His worth, his word who rules eternity, 
 
 Vain is th' attempt, — Misrule and Revelry, 
 On th' ambient air the holy sounds disperse : 
 None will they heed, save those of boisterous glee. 
 
48 
 
 TO THE DEITY. 
 
 Wildly the storm is hurrying thro' the skies 
 On thunder-sounding wings : and hark ! the shore 
 Is echoing with the billows' wintry roar, 
 While Night's black mantle on the landscape lies ! 
 
 To Thee my spirit, heav'nly Father, tries, 
 Upborne by Faith and Love, for Peace to soar, 
 And fain from Thee would gain that precious store 
 Which renders thine adorers truly wise ! 
 
 The air, methinks, I cleave — thy glory see : 
 Thou seem'st to smile upon my prostrate soul, 
 And bidd'st her hope that Heav'n her home will be. 
 
 Blest thought ! Then may the seasons swiftly roll, 
 While she enjoys a sweet serenity, 
 And longs to reach her everlasting goal ! 
 
49 
 
 TO POETRY. 
 
 On me kind Nature feelings soft bestow'd ; 
 And from my childhood's days her gentle pow'r 
 Was prov'd, when rock I saw, or grove, or flow'r, 
 Or wander'd by a rill that murmuring flow'd. 
 
 Fair seem'd all objects that to me she show'd ! 
 Ay, all look'd deck'd with jewels, and each hour 
 By me spent musing in the woodland bowr 
 A moment seem'd — my heart so rapturous glow'd. 
 
 She prompts my verse. O transport infinite, 
 Dear Poesy, might it thine impress bear, 
 And Worth and Talent greet it with delight ! 
 
 This wish my bosom fills with anxious care, — 
 Sleepless I often pass the tedious night, 
 Or in too transient dreams thy garland wear. 
 
50 
 
 TO RELIGION. 
 
 Religion j in my dream, from Heav'n descended? 
 In form seraphic and in robes of white : 
 She came by Music's sweetest sounds attended, 
 And Darkness fled astonish'd at the sight; 
 
 "Mortal," she cried; " by Heaven thou art befriended? 
 And at His word I left the realms of light ! 
 By me Earth's sons from Sorrow are defended ! 
 My gifts are perfect peace and garlands bright !" 
 
 I answer' d : " Gracious visitant from Heaven, 
 Full many a pang pervades mine inmost breast, 
 And but for thee to madness I were driven. 
 
 Yea ! thou canst turn my troubled state to rest ! 
 Oh may my sins, through Jesus, be forgiven ; 
 And, dying, may I join th' immortal blest !" 
 
51 
 
 TO POETRY. 
 
 Written October 21st, 1839. 
 
 A lowly dwelling holds this form of mine, 
 But hither, Poetry, thou art invited ! 
 How with thy visit I should be delighted ! 
 And for thy brow some flow rs I still can twine. 
 
 I know that Fortune hath few smiles of thine ! 
 Thou in her splendid domes seem'st scarce excited> 
 And all her boasts to win thy love united, 
 Hardly can draw from thee one languid line ! 
 
 But sordid roofs oft seem to give thee pleasure; 
 Thy greatest favourites have the pauper's fare* 
 And thy boons constitute their only treasure ! 
 
 But what bright beams reveal thy presence there ! 
 What bliss can match the breast- enrapt ring leisure, 
 With thee enjoy 'd ? Then haste my home to share ! 
 
 e2 
 
52 
 
 TO PROVIDENCE. 
 
 Heav'n s Providence, why should mine heart at thee 
 Oft fretful rise, tho' doom'd to Life's dark vale : 
 Where, though so low, Time's blasts my roof assail, 
 And Sorrow's features oft I 'neath it see ? 
 
 All-wise thou art and bountiful to me. 
 Deserted by the world, I never fail 
 Thy care to prove, — thy spirit to inhale. 
 When to thine arms in Griefs sad hours I flee ! 
 
 So strange I am, and oft I rise so high, 
 When bright conceptions flash upon my mind, 
 That scarce my mortal state affects mine eye : 
 
 In that excitement, thou, supremely kind, 
 Bidd'st Anguish come, with Grief and Penury, 
 The charm to break, that I thine aid may find ! 
 
53 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 Bright, like reality, my dream portray 'd 
 Devon's fair scenes, which charm'd mine infant eyes : 
 I saw their beauties as the orient skies 
 The solar orb, in perfect pomp display'd. 
 
 Methought again along the woods I stray'd, 
 To cull their aromatic brilliant dyes ; 
 And hear glad Nature's concert heav'nward rise, 
 To praise that Power who all her wonders made ! 
 
 The lovely flatt'rer let me also see 
 My dearest kindred, and the well-known spot 
 Which saw my birth and youth's hilarity ! 
 
 Ye objects ! which ne'er waking are forgot : 
 Sleep, who before him makes the real flee, 
 Strives vainly from my mind your tints to blot. 
 
54 
 
 TO THE SUN. 
 
 Thou glorious orb, whence issue streams of gold 
 To make one dazzling whole the scenes of day ; 
 What eye uncharm'd thy grandeur can behold ? — 
 What tongue to thee refuse a rapturous lay ? 
 
 Thou biddest Spring her loveliest stores display; 
 And Autumn's fields their golden wealth unfold; — 
 Thou biddest e'en the wintry waste be gay. 
 Thou, like thy Maker, never growest old ! 
 
 So beautiful thou art, — so heavenly bright : — 
 So fair a type of Him who rear'd the skies, 
 And all things form'd, — the Lord of boundless might ! 
 
 That in my bosom ne'er it wakes surprise, 
 If lands unblest with pure Religion's light 
 Should suppliant view thee with adoring eyes ! 
 
55 
 
 TO A HEARTS-EASE. 
 
 ON SEEING IT GROW IN ONE OF THE WALKS OF A NEGLECTED 
 GARDEN. 
 
 The wind's caprice hath made thee ope thy dyes, 
 Sweet Pansy, where tall weeds their shades are spreading, 
 Where thy dwarf brilliant form defenceless lies 
 To every foot that is this pathway treading : 
 
 Whene'er thou dost ('tis oft !) attract mine eyes, 
 My spirit thy sad destiny is dreading ; 
 And in my breast the painful feelings rise 
 That o'er my mind are gloomy influence shedding. 
 
 Thou art, methinks, by magic pow r divested 
 Of thy frail Summer being, which must end 
 Ere oft from toil again the swain hath rested : 
 
 And seem'st a lovely maid without a friend, 
 In Life's drear road, by Vice and Wrong infested,— 
 Where Danger and Mischance her course attend ! 
 
56 
 
 TO MORNING. 
 
 There was a time, when, Morn ! I lovd to view 
 The peerless charms thou open'st to the eye ! 
 Oft pain-unmingled happiness I knew, 
 Beholding thy bright tints adorn the sky ! 
 
 My voice then join'd the woodland melody, — 
 Then on my cheek was stamp'd Health's rosy hue : — 
 Care ruffled not my bosom with a sigh, 
 Now Joy hath bid my soul a long adieu ! 
 
 World-cheering Morn ! thy sight I hail no more; 
 Rather I court Griefs more congenial scene, 
 When Night's dark wing hath shadow'd all things o'er ! 
 
 Smile thou for those whom Sorrow's weapons keen 
 Yet have not pierc'd — who need not yet deplore, 
 That clouds envelope what was once serene ! 
 
57 
 
 TO MEMORY. 
 
 Oh, what a wondrous pow'r thou, Mem'ry ! hast,- 
 And wondrous is thy mansion in the brain ! 
 Within what little space thou bindest fast 
 Forms numberless in thy mysterious chain ! 
 
 And at thy bidding thence canst bring again 
 What from the body's eye hath long-since past : 
 Yea, what can wound the soul with sharpest pain, 
 Or o'er the brow the beams of pleasure cast ! 
 
 Oh ! subtle mistress of a pow'r so strange, 
 At slightest touch to ope thy secret cells, 
 And all thy shapes to act their parts arrange : 
 
 The man is blessed who with Virtue dwells, — ■ 
 His rest thou canst not to disquiet change, 
 The more with thee his breast with rapture swells. 
 
58 
 
 TO MY BEST BELOVED. 
 
 Lady ! thine accents to my raptur'd ear 
 Are soft as Music's soul-entrancing lyre, 
 When touch'd by those whom in this earthly sphere 
 Her pow'rs of magic influence most inspire : 
 
 But there are moments when thy voice so dear 
 Fails to fulfil my panting heart's desire ; — 
 Fails to restrain sad Memory's gushing tear, 
 Or quench Affliction's slow-consuming fire ! 
 
 What then can charm or tranquillize my breast, 
 Save the dense woodland's gloom-encompassed wild, 
 Where nought disturbs its airy tenants' rest ? 
 
 Or the bold rock, with crag on crag up-pil'd, 
 Where lonely nature stands in horrors drest, 
 And God descends from Heav'n to Fancy's child ? 
 
59 
 
 TO THE COTTAGE OF P. N. ESQ. 
 
 pampisford, cambridgeshire. 
 
 Written 1827. 
 
 Thy view, fair cottage, fills with peace my heart ! 
 Gay is thy front with jasmine, rose, and vine ! 
 Bosom-attracting, void of pomp thou art : 
 Oh, that a tranquil home like this were mine ! 
 
 How the birds crowd these blooming bow rs of thine, 
 Thro' which the summer rays can never dart ! 
 Yet here they seem with matchless blaze to shine : — 
 Early they visit thee and late depart ! 
 
 The boasts of Nature and of human skill 
 Which deck thee, lovely spot, all eyes admire ; — 
 Mine most, that never here obtain their fill : 
 
 But more thou hast to rouse my feeble lyre, — - 
 My breast with pure delight thy dwellers thrill, 
 By Virtue warm'd and true Religion's fire ! 
 
60 
 
 TO A YOUNG ITALIAN MUSICIAN. 
 
 With thee, Italia's boy, the upland road, 
 Void of fatigue, one eve I sped along, 
 Heeding thy converse sweet, and heav'nly song, — 
 To her for whom thy breast with fervour glow'd ; — 
 
 'Twas blessed Mary, — and thy fervour flow'd 
 Into my bosom, and the thoughtless throng 
 Who pass'd us by I heeded not ; tho' wrong 
 Haply the scene they deem'd, and marvel show'd. 
 
 O youthful stranger in my father-land ! 
 Long may Religion o'er thy breast preside, 
 Then e'er thy pile of bliss unhurt will stand. 
 
 Love Him who liv'd on earth for man and died : 
 Thro' Sorrow's paths He will with Mercy's hand 
 Thy soul to everduring pleasure guide. 
 
61 
 
 TO A VISION. 
 
 Written 1824. 
 
 Stay, Vision ! stay, and let me longer fold 
 In my fond arms the sacred forms of those 
 Thro' whom a place among mankind I hold, 
 And whom I e'er shall love till life shall close : 
 
 How sweet, in verity, was my repose ! 
 Fast down my cheeks the tears of pleasure roll'd,- 
 I felt their kisses, — high my bosom rose, 
 And knew more ecstacy than can be told ! 
 
 Alas ! obdurate One, thou wilt not hear : 
 Gone, gone thou art, and nothing leav'st behind, 
 Except my heart's wild throb and still warm tear : 
 
 The vanish'd forms no longer can I find : 
 Distant they are, and only now appear 
 Unto the visual organ of the mind ! 
 
62 
 
 CHUDLEIGH ROCK. 
 
 There is a spot thro' which a stream is flowing, 
 With lulling murmurs o'er its stony bed, 
 Where trees and shrubs their boughs are wildly throwing, 
 And where an ivied rock uplifts its head ! 
 
 That spot I love more than the garden glowing 
 With fairest flow'rs, and thither oft I sped, 
 In happier days, and most when winds were strowing 
 With leaves the soil, and Dian splendour shed. 
 
 There never could I bear a mortal sound ! 
 In nought but tinkling rills and foliage flutter'd 
 By the wing'd breeze and sprites I pleasure found : 
 
 Oft I stood breathless on that fairy ground, 
 Lest the sweet words its shadowy genius utter'd 
 Should by a lowly child of earth be drown'd ! 
 
63 
 
 TO A MAN, WHO BEING CONSCIENCE-STRUCK AT CHURCH 
 WAS OFFENDED WITH THE PREACHER. 
 
 Hast thou, young mortal ! in the house of pray'r, 
 Where oft Religion mark'd thy careless eye, 
 And mien unmov'd, and mark'd it with a sigh, 
 At length been taught to feel God's presence there ? 
 
 At length hath Conscience laid thy bosom bare ? 
 And hath a pointed weapon of the sky 
 (Thanks for the special blessing from on high !) 
 So pierc'd thee that the pain thou canst not bear ? 
 
 Then fly to Him who cures the anguish'd breast : 
 His was the wound, and His the cure will be, 
 If thou in Faith desire the medicine blest ! 
 
 Fly to Him quick, while rack'd by Misery : 
 No opiate take to soothe thy soul depress 
 Lest thou awake to endless agony. 
 
64 
 
 TO 
 
 A FRIEND WHO WAS VERY UNHAPPY. 
 
 I, like thyself, have seen Misfortune's sweep 
 Lay every hope of earthly comfort low : 
 Oft have I felt the tears of Sorrow flow, 
 And e'en my racking grief have prov'd in sleep. 
 
 But now less oft, less bitterly, 1 weep : 
 A medicine I have found to soothe my woe, — 
 With Hope again it bids my bosom glow, 
 And o'er it Peace and sweet Composure creep. 
 
 It is the Heav'n-produc d unfailing balm 
 That Piety instils into the breast, 
 Diffusing there an inexpressive calm. 
 
 To cure thine anguish let her be addrest ; 
 Ease thou wilt find, and even the glorious palm 
 Which wreathes the immortal spirits of the blest. 
 
65 
 
 TO A BARREN SCENE. 
 
 Here is no stream of liquid-silver, sweeping 
 Thro' meads of flowers and verdure to the ocean ; 
 No Naiad in her rocky cavern weeping ; 
 No grove of oaks to suit our Sires' devotion : 
 
 No ivy round a broken column creeping, 
 Nor aught to fill my breast with soft emotion, — 
 But Fancy, who in me is never sleeping, 
 Drenches my spirit with Enchantment's potion. 
 
 Now, now, this barren prospect is assuming 
 The charms which deck the Poet's richest pages,— 
 Colour'd with Painting's brilliant hues 'tis blooming : 
 
 'Tis trod by saints and heros, bards and sages, 
 Whom to oblivion Time will ne'er be dooming, 
 Tho' his career extend to countless ages ! 
 
 F 
 
66 
 
 TO THE MUSE. 
 
 written when suffering under very severe illness. 
 
 Dymchurch, May 1836. 
 
 Oft, lovely woodbine-crown'd and green-clad maid ! 
 On me, methinks, thy thrilling hands thou layest, 
 And with a voice, sweet as the dove's, thou sayest : 
 " Now come with me and seek the woodland shade." 
 
 " With thee, dear Muse !" I answer; " oft I've stray 'd: 
 Nought can withhold my spirit when thou prayest ; — 
 When thou thy fascinating arts displayest, — 
 At once is heard thy summons and obey'd. 
 
 Away then, straight on Fancy's wings we fly, — 
 Swifter than eagles ; and fair-featur'd Pleasure 
 Awaits us with kind word, and hand, and eye. 
 
 Flow'rs bloom, — birds sing, — streams flow ; — blue is 
 the sky ; — 
 Sorrow forsakes me : therefore of thy treasure 
 Never, sweet maid, deprive me ere I die P 
 
67 
 
 TO THE BIBLE. 
 
 on walking with one in my hand in the beautiful 
 woods near chudleigh rock. 
 
 Written 1830. 
 
 What varied, lovely objects meet mine eye. 
 In fair diversity of dale and hill : 
 The meadow-tints the painter's pow'rs defy, 
 While thro' the verdure steals the silv'ry rill ! 
 
 These woods and rocks their summits lift on high, 
 And seem eternal; but th' Almighty will, 
 One day, in ruin bid them mingled lie, 
 And Nature, thunder-struck, with horror fill ! 
 
 Thou, Book most precious t which I open hold, 
 Tell'st me that if this goodly frame decay, 
 Its matchless author never waxeth old : 
 
 That when His fiat bids it melt away, 
 Another will arise of heavenly mould,-^ 
 Th' abode of bliss and everlasting day ! 
 
 f 2 
 
68 
 
 TO EDUCATION. 
 
 Of lowly parents born, and lowly bred, 
 And with his village peers, as peasants taught : 
 Yon youth, the sharer of his father's shed, 
 Hath an eye kindled with the torch of Thought • 
 
 Oft Miltons page is seen before him spread : 
 And to the task his utmost pow'rs are brought 
 To comprehend the bard, whose numbers fed, 
 Perchance, his mental fire ; but all for nought ! 
 
 O Education ! would, in thy kind sphere, 
 Thine influence he had felt ! Perhaps that swain 
 With Poesy might speed his bright career : 
 
 Perhaps, alive, the bay might be his gain : 
 Perhaps Religion might bedew his bier 
 With tears, and his tomb grace the poets' fane ! 
 
69 
 
 TO GENIUS. 
 
 Roses and lilies, scented briar and pea, 
 And various flow'rs, whose brilliant breasts abound 
 With perfume, which they wide diffuse around, 
 Me, Genius, oft from study wand'ring see : 
 
 Amidst them my companion deign to be ! 
 Hear, while I view them with such beauty crown'd, 
 For some attraction may in each be found, 
 The prayer, with glowing heart, I pour to thee : 
 
 O'er my whole spirit spread thy quickening pow'r; — 
 My thoughts exalt, — make sharp my mental eye : 
 And let me match, at least, the meanest flow r ! 
 
 But fain Fd peer the rose in scent and dye; 
 Richly would deck the heav'nly muse's bow'r, 
 Blooming for Time and for Eternity ! 
 
70 
 
 TO A BEAUTIFUL CHILD. 
 
 on his smiling on me while i was baptizing him. 
 Dymchurch, July 21st, 1839. 
 
 Dost thou on me, O lovely infant, smile, 
 While I, with holy language, on thy face, 
 Shed hallow'd water, in this hallow'd place, — 
 That Adam's stain may thee no more defile ? 
 
 Well may'st thou pleasure show : 'twill reconcile 
 Thy soul to Him who gives the aids of grace 
 To all who His appointed means embrace, 
 And living serve Him, — stedfast, void of guile ! 
 
 Thus may'st thou alway in thy sapient years 
 Smile on Christ's envoy, when to thee he brings 
 What to Reflection beautiful appears : — 
 
 The Gospel-mandate from the King of Kings — 
 Fitting thy soul to quit the vale of tears, 
 And reach the realms where Truth triumphant sings ! 
 
n 
 
 TO THE ENGLISH MUSE. 
 
 Somewhat I see within my cells of thought, 
 Which seems on all around to cast a light, 
 But know not whether 'tis the diamond bright, 
 With ever-during brilliance richly fraught; 
 
 Or whether Reason values it as nought : 
 E'en as a meteor which illumines night 
 One moment only in her cloud-veil'd flight, 
 And then in air its place is vainly sought. 
 
 If a bright jewel, it thy brows may gem, 
 England's loved Muse, till thou and Time expire, 
 And add fresh brilliance to thy diadem ! 
 
 But if 'tis merely meteoric fire, 
 Vain is my toil Oblivion's flood to stem, 
 And brief the echo of my hapless lyre I 
 
72 
 
 TO POETIC BEAUTY. 
 
 Thee e'er I view, Poetic Beauty, thee 
 Much I admire, and thee full glad would gain : 
 Oft, thou my gaze delightest 'neath a tree: 
 Oft, lightly tripping near the azure main : 
 
 Oft, when thou bendest o'er the toiling bee, 
 There, where sweet flow'rs adorn and scent the plain ; 
 Or where the clear stream winds along the lea ; 
 Or where the birds, bough-hidden, sing their strain. 
 
 But when I strive to gain thee, charming maid ! 
 From me thou fleest, in guise of empty air : 
 And thou to me art what? — An empty shade ! 
 
 Thus Fiction saith, that when Ixion laid 
 On the feign'd Juno his fond hands : he there 
 Had his love only with a cloud repaid! 
 
73 
 
 TO MY LYRE. 
 
 Few are thy strings, my little lowly lyre ! 
 And o'er those strings no master-hand is flung : 
 The fire within me is a soon-spent fire : — 
 But by my voice the lays of Truth are sung! [inspire. 
 
 Flow'rs — rills — mounts — meads — my humble strains 
 The warblers, where in woods their homes are hung : 
 Heaven's vaults, the seas, and Nature's common Sire ; — 
 Chief, the fair scenes I dwelt within, when young ! 
 
 Little thou own'st the sons of Earth to please, — 
 For what have they to do with such like themes ? 
 Blithe birds, brooks, breezes, blossoms, branches, bees ! 
 
 Waking, the world they think on, and in dreams : 
 Time's boons to gain, employs their energies, 
 And how to bask in Fortune's brilliant beams ! 
 
74 
 
 TO MELANCHOLY. 
 
 Dymchurch, July 8th, 1836. 
 
 Twilight's grey hues the clouds of sapphire stain, 
 And to yon sycamore, church-circling trees, 
 Motion is given by the new-born breeze, 
 And, Melancholy ! 'tis thine hour to reign : 
 
 I feel thine empire o'er mine heart and brain, 
 And weep, while o'er the landscape mine eye sees 
 Even's dark veil extended by degrees : — 
 Who knows if e'er I Morn shall hail again ? 
 
 Bodements of evil agitate my frame, — 
 Wherefore, I know not. Thou, all- thoughtful maid ! 
 Shouldst none, except unruly passions, tame ! 
 
 Shouldst my sad spirit in her efforts aid 
 To fly to Him from whom her being came ; 
 Who with his presence doth His realms pervade ! 
 
75 
 
 TO GOD. 
 
 WRITTEN ON THE FOLLOWING MORNING. 
 
 Thou yestere'en, kind God ! beheld'st my soul 
 To Melancholy's pow 'r a pensive prey : 
 And big tears saw'st adown my visage roll : 
 Thy father-hand hath wip'd them all away ! 
 
 Again I see fair Morning gild the pole : 
 Again to me thou giv'st another day, 
 And may I give to holy thought the whole, 
 And not one moment go from Thee astray ! 
 
 It should be, gracious Father ! wholly thine. 
 To me, by Thee, at Pity's pray'r 'twas given ; 
 To make me love Thee better, Pow'r Divine ! 
 
 To Thee may I myself in all resign : 
 And, when no longer mortal, soar to Heav'n, 
 And see thy glory there unclouded shine ! 
 
76 
 
 TO HOPE. 
 
 No more, sweet Hope I thy face my spirit cheers, 
 While I am hurrying to the grave my way : 
 Thou who wast wont on many a former day 
 Mine heart to soothe 'mid all my woes and fears ! 
 
 How I shall miss thee in life's latter years ! 
 Grief for thy loss will haste my frame's decay, 
 And Nature's debt, methinks, I soon shall pay, — 
 Tho' scarce on me Time's with'ring hand appears ! 
 
 Sweet Hope I if vanish'd from mine earthly eyes, 
 Oh ! mayst thou meet my spirit, when the tomb 
 Resigns his booty, summon'd by the skies : 
 
 Be my companion at the day of doom, — 
 Till heavenly Mercy bid me joyful rise 
 To the bless'd scene where flow'rs unfading bloom I 
 
77 
 
 TO DEVON. 
 
 I loved to tread thy flow'ry meadows, sprinkled 
 With dew-drops, Devon ! from mine earliest days : 
 And rapture felt when they, bright-colour'd, twinkled, 
 Illumin'd by th' unclouded solar rays : 
 
 And how I loved thy limpid streamlets, wrinkled 
 By Zephyrs' wings, — while o'er the limpid maze 
 They play'd, and moved the trees,— while softly tinkled 
 The pebbled rill, to charm the woodland fays ! 
 
 I was, in sooth, thou know'st, a pensive boy 1 
 And loved mine hours to pass, with sprites conversing I 
 And I thence drew a strange and witching joy. 
 
 Such pleasures ne'er my youthful breast could cloy : 
 I feel sweet pleasure when such themes rehearsing, 
 And, young again, would thus mine hours employ I 
 
78 
 
 TO THE SEA. 
 
 How beautiful thou art, O tranquil main ! 
 I gaze upon thee with delighted eye, 
 While the bright mid-day sun adorns the sky, 
 Thou azure-tinted, jewel-spangled plain ! 
 
 Didst thou, for aye, these glorious charms retain, 
 Who would not o'er thy surface love to fly, 
 In white-win g'd barks that with the sea-birds vie, 
 And wealth and pleasure, lore and wisdom gain ? 
 
 Of Life thou art the emblem, changeful Sea ! 
 Life, sometimes calm and smooth, as now thou art ! 
 Then Time is priz'd above Eternity ! 
 
 Soon Fate disturbs that calm, as tempests thee ; 
 And then the Christian yields his chasten'd heart 
 To Him who reigns in Heaven eternally ! 
 
79 
 
 TO CALAIS. 
 
 When standing, Calais ! by thy billowy roar, 
 Spell-like, methought, times present pass'd away, 
 And Scotia's Mary, 'mid the silv'ry spray 
 Embark'd I saw to reach her native shore ! 
 
 She was as lovely as in fabled lore 
 The Nereids were, but ah ! no longer gay. 
 Tears bath'd her cheeks, and grief all-heavy lay 
 On her young heart ! She France might see no more 
 
 " Alas ! these restless seas," aloud she cried, 
 " Soon, France beloved, will hide thee from my gaze ; 
 But in thy realms my thoughts will ever dwell ! 
 
 Would with my royal consort I had died ; 
 Fear whispers me that all my future days 
 Are Hate and Sorrow's prey ! Farewell ! Farewell !" 
 
80 
 
 TO A BEAUTIFUL APPLE-TREE, 
 
 IN MY FATHER'S ORCHARD AT CHUDLEIGH. 
 
 Well I remember in my being's spring, 
 That I could match, dear tree, thy proudest height, — 
 When scarce thy boughs could show one blossom bright 
 To tempt the honey-seeking murmurer's wing ! 
 
 Now oft the wildest birds within thee sing : 
 In May's gay hours thou art one mass of white, 
 Whereon Pomona looks with fond delight, 
 And annual boons to her thy riches bring ! 
 
 I sigh when I with thine my state contrast ! 
 The few fair flow 'rets which my youth display 'd 
 Have felt the nippings of Affliction's blast : 
 
 Too soon their blushing tints were seen to fade ; 
 Leaves void of fruit are all my promise past, — 
 Or withered blossoms, chill'd by Sorrow's shade I 
 
81 
 
 ON COLUMBUS 
 
 When faui'd Columbus dared the stormy main, 
 And to far-distant bounds of Ocean sped, 
 With manly bosom, unsubdued by dread, 
 To give a new-discover d world to Spain : 
 
 Amid the varied cares and gnawing pain, 
 Which o'er his cheeks the hues of Anguish spread, 
 By bright-beam'd Hope, with sweet illusion led, 
 She whisper'd : " Fame will be thy mighty gain !" 
 
 An adverse Genius ruled his mournful doom, 
 And gave his flatt'ring visions to the wind : 
 He bore the marks of Envy, not of Fame ! — 
 
 She chain'd his limbs and brought him to the tomb I 
 That hemisphere, his skill alone could find, 
 Bears a presumptuous claimant's— not his name ! 
 
 G 
 
82 
 
 TO EVENING. 
 
 Rich, softest Even, are the Summer skies, 
 When o'er the sinking sun thy hands have strovvn 
 Fiow'rs, as it seems, of such bright, countless dyes, 
 As in the bounds of Eden might have blown ! 
 
 But soon they will no longer charm mine eyes, 
 And a grey veil will meet my view alone, — 
 Or twinkling stars : at most, the moon will rise, 
 Her borrow'd beams by Night's dim contrast shown. 
 
 Nought to surpass the lovely Morn thou hast, — 
 She at her birth is, e'en as thou art, fair : 
 Nor with her dawning is her beauty past; 
 
 Bright, more and more, are Ocean, Earth, and Air 
 Each coming moment's grace exceeds the last, 
 Till Nature's forms all robes of lustre wear. 
 
83 
 
 ADDRESSED TO SOME FRENCH GENTLEMEN TO WHOM I OWED 
 MY EDUCATION AT CHUDLEIGH. 
 
 When, Gallia's Sons, with you I wont to stray- 
 Where I, whom ye so kindly train'd, was born, 
 To see the year its varied stores display : 
 Bright snow, fair flow'rs, ripe grass, or yellow corn : 
 
 How quickly pass'd my youth- delighting day ! 
 Eve seem'd to tread upon the heels of Morn : 
 And scarcely Nature heard the birds in May, 
 Ere she was deafen'd by the hunter's horn ! 
 
 O, how I listen 'd to your valued lore ! 
 How much I strove to gain your courtly tongue ! 
 How, how I daily loved you more and more I 
 
 On your's, methought, my very being hung, — 
 And Sirens, had I reach'd their dang'rous shore, 
 With you, in vain, their witching lay had sung ! 
 
 g2 
 
84 
 
 TO EDWIN. 
 
 ON THE VERY STRIKING RESEMBLANCE WHICH HE BEARS TO 
 
 my dear father. 
 Written 1824. 
 
 The more, my child, thy beauteous face I view, 
 The more I find thee like my much loved sire : 
 His brow thou hast, his lip, his eyes of blue, 
 That love, respect, and confidence inspire ! 
 
 Ne'er truer copy Art or Nature drew ; 
 None Penetration's gaze might more admire : 
 Oft, seeing thee, sweet tears my cheeks bedew, 
 And ne'er, when so employ 'd, mine eye would tire ! 
 
 But may th' exterior, boy ! be not the whole 
 Wherein thou art his peer : thou hast his form, 
 Then emulate his dignity of soul ! — 
 
 His heart with Christian love and faith is warm ; 
 Stored is his head ; his flesh he can control; 
 And like a rock derides Time's every storm! 
 
85 
 
 TO EDWIN. 
 
 on teaching him botany. 
 Written 1824. 
 
 Yea, Edwin ! richest jewel of my breast ! 
 Thee, from thine op'ning childhood, I will train 
 To love th' enamell'd mead, by Flora drest, 
 And the bright-tinted, scent-diffusing plain ! 
 
 Ill point thee out th' All-pow 'rful's stamp, impress'd 
 On all the produce of his boundless reign : 
 Goodness and might the universe invest, 
 And nought which meets the view is form'd in vain ! 
 
 First, Nature's volume shall thy thoughts engage, 
 Which for the Christian's Book will fit thine eyes ; — 
 There marvel-waking objects crowd the page ! 
 
 May God advance mine efforts from the skies ! 
 Safe may He guide thee thro' life's pilgrimage, 
 And grant thy deathless soul the heav'nly prize ! 
 
TO A LADY'S GOLDFINCH. 
 
 Written 1824. 
 
 I love thee, Goldfinch ! for the beauteous dyes 
 Which in thy variegated plumage shine ! 
 Much more the ear-delighting notes I prize 
 Which flow like honey from that bill of thine ! 
 
 Still more I love thee, as these wires confine 
 The wings which Nature form'd to skim the skies ; 
 Altho* thou shouldst not in thy prison pine, 
 Since thy fond mistress all thy wants supplies ! 
 
 A claim thou hast still dearer in my sight : 
 One of thy race is ever cherish'd where, 
 First, I beheld the landscape-gladdening light ! 
 
 He hath my honour'd mother's fostering care 
 (Her tenderness I never can requite !) 
 Therefore I dearly love thee, Child of Air ! 
 
87 
 
 TO MY BROTHER, A COMMANDER IN THE 
 ROYAL NAVY. 
 
 While thou art sailing o'er the blue expanse. 
 With wide-distended canvas, brother dear, 
 Where many a danger lurks, and dire mischance, 
 Which Sympathy is terror-chill'd to hear : 
 
 Oh, be most cautious in thy rude career, 
 And Heav'nward send thy aid-imploring glance, 
 When yelling blasts excite the pilot's fear, 
 And make the tallest ships like bubbles dance ! 
 
 Heed, heed Affection's voice ; for on thy weal 
 Is hung the hope, — the joy, — the life of those 
 Who all the warmth of kindred bosoms feel ! 
 
 Fast down their cheeks the briny liquid flows, 
 W T hile the loud sea-upturning tempest blows, 
 And drives the boiling foam against thy keel ! 
 
88 
 
 TO THE REV. H. T. C, M.A. 
 
 of trinity colle(ie, cambridge, on receiving the sacra- 
 mental cup from his hands in a london church. 
 
 Easter Sunday, 1840. 
 
 To strangers' eyes 'twas no unusual scene, 
 When thou, my junior, with a holy pray'r, 
 To me the cup of Christ, with tranquil mien 
 Gav'st, in that church which is thy sacred care ! 
 
 But thou and I of diffrent feelings were ; 
 And when each other, with a look serene, 
 We view'd, the angels viewless station'd there, 
 Rejoiced at what they clearly saw, I ween ! 
 
 I was thy guide to lore, in Granta's shade; 
 And Self-respect our bosoms ne'er forsook, 
 While progress in Instruction's path we made. 
 
 Praised be Heav'n's pow'r, we ne'er from Virtue stray 'd : 
 Hence, when from thee the hallow'd cup I took, 
 The face of neither painful thoughts betray 'd ! 
 
89 
 
 WRITTEN IN THE COLLEGE WALKS OF CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 The Sun is sinking on the couch of Night, 
 And with his milder eye beholds the scene 
 Adorn'd, ye stately groves I with liveliest green, 
 And with his lustre brighter makes the bright ! 
 
 I cannot quit this eye-arresting sight: 
 E'en like the sky, my bosom is serene, 
 And objects none, meseemeth, intervene 
 'Twixt me and Him who form'd yon solar light I 
 
 Let others Grandeur's glittering baubles prize, 
 And all their efforts never-wearied try, 
 To gain the gems which shine in worldlings' eyes : 
 
 Be it my task to view the glowing sky, 
 When Morn and Even spread their varied dyes 
 O'er green -robed Earth and her blue canopy ! 
 
90 
 
 TO ETERNITY. 
 
 Written May 1836. 
 
 When Danger's hand was dragging me away 
 From scenes that open to man's vision lie, 
 To those thou solely seest, Eternity ! 
 My soul, thank Heaven ! was 'neath Religion's sway ; 
 
 I needed not Heav'n's volume to display 
 The blissful scenes which are beyond the sky, 
 And those where ne'er the gnawing worm will die, 
 Or fires be quench'd ! Truth shone with cloudless ray ! 
 
 Solely my spirit needed to be taught 
 How to be pleasing to the King of Kings, 
 Who Faith, unmixt with pray'r, regards as nought ! 
 
 Th' unrivall'd book of England's Church I sought ; 
 Then my rapt spirit soar'd on eagle- wings, 
 And back to earth Religion's comforts brought! 
 
91 
 
 TO LINCOLN CATHEDRAL. 
 
 on meeting a beloved college friend in that city. 
 Written March 31st, 1840. 
 
 Magnific Minster ! on thy matchless site, 
 That risest, mount-like, from the scene below. 
 No eye, meseems, can view with more delight 
 Than mine thy grandeur, or more transport show : 
 
 Superb thou art in finish, space, and height ! 
 Supreme 'mid countless beauties, and my flow 
 Of life will cease, ere thou with charms all bright 
 On Memory's tablet traced, no more shalt glow ! 
 
 Yet charms superior my delighted eye 
 Found in thine ancient city, — a loved friend, — 
 And nought thou seem'dst while he was standing by ! 
 
 Thou, throned in pomp, at length wilt prostrate lie, 
 At Time's behest, while Friendship shall not end, 
 'Twixt virtuous souls, ere deathless spirits die ! 
 
92 
 
 TO DON JUAN ARIAS DE CARBAJAL, 
 
 a most highly talented and excellent pupil <>f mine 
 at cambridge. 
 
 Written 1832. 
 
 When Spring once more hath spread her verdant vest, 
 Dear Arias ! over mead — vale — hill — and plain, 
 Again thou wilt behold thy land, rich Spain ! 
 And by thy longing kindred be caress'd ! 
 
 Methinks, I hear their rapturous joy express'd, 
 That thou, a traveller, various lore to gain, 
 Hast not allow'd thine hours to pass in vain ! 
 Thy looks and words the truth must well attest ! 
 
 When aught thou viewest picturesque or rare : 
 The shaggy steep — deep deli — sequesterd stream — 
 The golden grove — wild wood — or flowVet fair, — 
 
 Wish me, thy nature-loving tutor, there ! 
 Think how, ne'er wearied with the rural theme, 
 Enchanted I that joy with thee would share ! 
 
93 
 
 TO THOMAS MOORE, ESQ. 
 
 ON HIS MOST BEAUTIFUL BALLAD CALLED " THE DREAM OF 
 HOME." 
 
 Oft have I wept, when Music's tones I've heard, 
 From others, — and mine own have sometimes, too, 
 My bosom's throbber with emotion stirr'd, 
 And many a tear of rapture forced to flow : 
 
 But not Art's skill, nor Night's melodious bird, 
 
 E'er made me such o'erpow'ring transport know, 
 
 As thou, Moore ! now. Thy song must be preferr'd 
 
 By me, methinks, to ev'ry strain below ! 
 
 My dear, lost home I muse on : dear, too dear, 
 
 t 
 For mine heart's peace ! 'Tis with thy " Dream" combined ; 
 
 My soul is touched, while ravish'd is mine ear ! 
 
 Again thou mak'st me all my dear home find ; — 
 
 Again its scenes I view— my kindred hear : 
 
 Again delight pervades my frame and mind ! 
 
94 
 
 TO A FRIEND, 
 
 with whom and his family the author had spent the 
 previous evening. 
 
 London, February 11th, 1840. 
 
 Around thy brow no royal wreath is twined, 
 Prized friend ! no star is glitt'ring on thy breast : 
 Thy garb and home nor wealth nor rank attest : 
 But how thou art adorn'd with gems of mind ! 
 
 How me thou charmedst with thy speech refined ! 
 True Wisdom's thoughts, in words appropriate drest : 
 And mine heart, jointly with my tongue, confest 
 What worth and talent were in thee combined ! 
 
 Thy presence loved I left with deep regret : 
 Then what sad contrast burst upon mine eye I — 
 That eye which thou hadst made with rapture wet ! 
 
 Alone I seem'd, though thousands pass'd me by : 
 And while unprized, — unknown, — my view they met, 
 On thee and thine I mused with many a sigh ! 
 
95 
 
 TO ST. PETER'S GROVE, CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 'Tis not because transcendent charms are thine, 
 St. Peter's tranquil grove ! I much admire 
 Thy linden rows, and ever pleased resign 
 Retreats far lovelier, hither to retire : 
 
 Thyself could ne'er enchant this heart of mine ;— 
 My fingers never tempt to touch the lyre, — 
 To call forth music, ne'er my soul incline 
 To make thy shades an object of desire ! 
 
 But tho' of worth thou own'st a common store, 
 And I, at will, might visit fairer bow'rs, 
 Yet Memory bids me seek thee as before; — 
 
 When here with Friendship swiftly fled the hours, 
 Quaffing the crystal fount of virtuous lore, 
 And culling Poesy's immortal flow'rs ! 
 
96 
 
 to the villagers who brought me flowers, etc. to 
 adorn my rectorial garden at dymchurch. 
 
 Written July 1835. 
 
 Delight pervades my bosom, when ye bear 
 Sweet flowers, kind Villagers ! with plants and seeds, 
 To make my garden (once a bed of weeds) 
 Ch : ev'ry eye and sweeten all the air ! 
 
 To pay this debt shall be my special care, 
 And give you what your mental garden needs ; 
 Where many a noxious herb the good impedes, 
 Which would, if clear'd, produce the blossom fair. 
 
 What ye bring me will wither soon and die, 
 And vainly will their present tints be sought : 
 Winter's wild rage will reign o'er earth and sky ; 
 
 W T hile what I plant to store your tracts of thought, 
 If foster'd, by the Pow r who rules on high 
 To never-ending beauty will be brought ! 
 
97 
 
 TO THE REVEREND PREBENDARY L. 
 
 A mighty river spreads its waters wide, 
 And sweeps along thro' vales, and plains, and meads, 
 And all their produce with its riches feeds, 
 That Nature may with stores be all supplied : 
 
 A rippling rill runs down a mountain's side, 
 And with its stealthy course to Ocean speeds, 
 Yielding the moisture which the herblet needs, 
 And clothing little shrubs in leafy pride : — 
 
 Great Sir, thou art that river, and thy way 
 Thro' Life's all- various scenes with good is fraught, 
 And countless objects own thy genial sway ; 
 
 Just like the rill may I, at least, be thought, — 
 That when I have obtain'd my final day, 
 My earthly life may not have been for nought! 
 
98 
 
 TO THE BELOVED GRANDCHILD OF SOME 
 HIGHLY ESTEEMED FRIENDS. 
 
 Sweet boy ! there is a language in thine eye 
 Which from the tongue expression never needs : 
 A glance thou givest, and that glance exceeds 
 What I could fancy, and may words defy ! 
 
 Like a bright flower beneath the sun-bright sky, 
 Mayst thou thy buds expand, unchoked by weeds, 
 Or aught which that expansion fair impedes, 
 And show to man each view-delighting dye ! 
 
 And when on earth thy useful life is o'er, 
 By Age bereft of all thy sentient pow'rs, 
 Mayst thou be happy on th' eternal shore ! 
 
 Oh, what a thought to make thee spend thine hours 
 In acts of good, and gaining heav'nly lore : — 
 Reflection forms the bliss of Heav'n's fair bow'rs ! 
 
99 
 
 TO THE CHILDREN OF A COLLEGE FRIEND. 
 
 on seeing them gathering cowslips. 
 
 Written April 22nd, 1840. 
 
 With eager speed along the mead ye run, 
 Dear offspring of an ever-valued sire, 
 Culling the flow rs now glowing with the sun : 
 And who can flow'rs behold, and not admire ? 
 
 By you, in guiltless war, sweet spoils are won, 
 And may be tuned upon a guiltless lyre : 
 And I will pray that your dear lives, begun 
 In innocence, may innocent expire ! 
 
 The balmy cowslips which ye joyous seize, 
 Are beautiful to see, — to smell, — to taste ; 
 May ye, like cowslips, with your virtues please :— 
 
 And when your days, with no untimely haste, 
 Have their due limits gain'd, may Eden's trees 
 Shade your blest brows, with flow'rs unfading graced I 
 
100 
 
 TO SOME YOUNG LADIES, MY PUPILS 
 AT CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 Ye youthful dwellers in this fair domain, 
 Where ye grow, lovely, 'neath the parent-eye, — 
 Each morn the sun, ascending in the sky, 
 Beholds his genial rays have not been vain : 
 
 See, how fair Floras variegated train, 
 All with each other for precedence vie : 
 Yet scarce full-blown they are before they die, 
 And never will they rise to bloom again ! 
 
 May daily ye the hues of thought display, 
 And emulate each other in the race 
 Of mental worth, and Heaven's commands obey ! 
 
 Ye are design'd to reach the happy place, 
 After your mortal vest aside ye lay, 
 If fast ye hold the sovereign means of grace ! 
 
101 
 
 ADDRESSED TO A VERY AGED COUPLE, WITH WHOM I WAS IN 
 
 THE HABIT OF READING THE HOLY SCRIPTURES 
 
 AT DYMCHURCH. 
 
 O venerable pair ! while oft a seat 
 'Twixt you I hold, and read the heavenly lore, 
 Which teaches man to gain for evermore 
 Heav'n's own pure bliss, your hearts with rapture beat ! 
 
 Ye long have trodden, with unwearied feet, 
 The upward rugged path to yon bright door, 
 Which opes to all who Jesus' aid implore, 
 And where fair angels earthly pilgrims greet ! 
 
 Blest be my holy duty, which delight 
 To you affords, unmix'd, in Life's last days, 
 And heav'nly boons on earth my deed requite : 
 
 With you, the eternal pages seem more bright 
 Than elsewhere I behold them, — and my praise 
 I will, ye hoary saints, with your's unite ! 
 
102 
 
 TO A VILLAGE MATRON, 
 
 JUST BEFORE HER BURIAL SHE DIED AT THE AGE OFEIGHTY. 
 
 Written December 3rd, 1838. 
 
 While thee I gaze upon, time- vanquished dame, 
 For burial clad, and touch thy freezing hand, 
 I cannot Sorrow's forceful power withstand ; 
 And weep that Death hath quench'd thy vital flame ! 
 
 I found thee hale, when hither first I came, 
 Three summers since ; and if I could command, 
 And Death must heed my voice, each vital band 
 Of thine again should join thy soul and frame ! 
 
 No boast was thine of talent or of lore ; 
 No phrase of thine could please Refinement's ear ; 
 And nought remain'd of all fair Fortune's store : 
 
 But to mine heart thou wast and wilt be dear ; — 
 Mild, grateful, and submissive : daily more 
 I prized thee as a Christian soul sincere ! 
 
103 
 
 TO A MISSIONARY. 
 
 The taper which conducts the pilgrim's feet 
 O'er darksome wilds, rough steeps, and thorny ways. 
 With night-enveloped dangers all replete, 
 For his safe escort spends its useful rays ! 
 
 Thus, Missioner ! thy vital flame decays, 
 In guiding Error's victims to the seat 
 Where true Religion sings the Saviour's praise, 
 And makes the soul for Heaven's enjoyment meet ! 
 
 But tho' in such a cause thy lamp expire : — 
 A cause which even angels love to view, 
 And for its weal beseech th' Eternal Sire ; 
 
 Yet soon it will its brilliancy renew, 
 And burn for ever with a vivid fire, 
 In the bright climes above yon vaults of blue I 
 
104 
 
 To T. D n, Esq. 
 
 of downing college, cambridge, on his resemblance 
 to an old college friend. 
 
 Written in 1833. 
 
 Thoughts tinged by sadness in my mind arise, 
 When by thy side I take my wonted place, 
 Or hear thy voice, dear youth ! or view thy face, — 
 And surely oft thou hear'st my deep-drawn sighs ! 
 
 Then twice ten summers vanish from mine eyes ! 
 Again I run with youths my joyous race, — 
 Again I can the well-known features trace 
 Of One, whom ne'er mine heart will cease to prize ! 
 
 His form, — his mien, — his accents were like thine : 
 His talents, too : his prospects were as bright ! 
 But Fortune's rays as short-lived meteors shine ! 
 
 Grief early turn'd his raven locks to white, 
 And deeply mark'd his brow with many a line : 
 O never may that foe thy freshness blight ! 
 
105 
 
 TO THE SWEET-BRIAR. 
 
 Which of the floral race with thee can vie, 
 Thou fragrant Briar ! whose arms extending spread 
 A veil of green o'er many a peasants shed, 
 Or the fair villa, and delight the eye ? 
 
 Sweet are thy petals of the softest dye, 
 Like the pink hues which deck the solar bed, 
 Ere Twilight hide it ; and thy fruitage red 
 The corals richest colour may defy ! 
 
 Thou art not solely fair in fruit and flow'r, 
 But the smell charmest with thy foliage sweet : 
 E'en from the op'ning to the withering hour ! 
 
 I of thy beauties bright will form my bow r : 
 Ever thou mak'st my heart delighted beat, — 
 Thou tree, by Nature form'd of triple pow'r ! 
 
106 
 
 ON SEEING ONE FADED LEAF ON A VERY 
 FLOURISHING TREE, IN SPRING. 
 
 IN REFERENCE TO THE ILLNESS OF MISS FISHER, OF ST. IVES, 
 HUNTINGDONSHIRE. 
 
 Poor leaf, I pity thee ! scarce hadst thou spread 
 Thy verdant freshness to the eye of Spring, 
 When thou wert swept by fell Destruction's wing, 
 And all thy healthful tint, alas, is fled ! 
 
 While joyous ev'ry other lifts its head, 
 Inhales the air, which Zephyr's pinions bring, 
 And gay beholds the Sun his brilliance fling 
 O'er woods, and rills, and Earth's enameU'd bed : 
 
 Thus now I see (but with far deeper pain, 
 For well the cause requires it) Languor seize 
 One victim in a numerous youthful train : 
 
 To change for woes acute her former ease, 
 And Life's rich fountain of its fluids drain : 
 While all her peers retain their energies ! 
 
107 
 
 TO THE LATE JANE, RELICT OF JAMES 
 ANDREW, ESQ. LL.D. OF EDINBURGH. 
 
 Written November 1839. 
 
 Cold were mine heart, if Death had laid thee low, 
 Lady beloved ! and tearless were mine eyes : 
 Thou who wast wont to feel thy bosom glow 
 -With worth, well pleasing to the earth and skies ! 
 
 Who, more than thou, with pity look'd on woe ? 
 And thou, not satisfied with fruitless sighs, 
 For human grief didst e'er compassion show, 
 By kindest acts of Christian energies ! 
 
 Transcendent wife and mother ! and most dear 
 To all whom Heav'n with such a friend had blest : — 
 Many, with me, will shed for thee a tear ! 
 
 But while Affection still would keep thee here, 
 Faith tells the mourner that eternal rest 
 Will be thy portion in the heavenly sphere ! 
 
108 
 
 TO EARTH. 
 
 on seeing a father and mother weeping at a newly 
 erected grave-stone. 
 
 Dymchurch, Sunday, April 8th, 1838. 
 
 How copiously that mothers sorrows flow ! 
 And I, though distant, hear her anguish'd moan : 
 Full well the cause of those loud cries of woe 
 Is told by yonder new, conspicuous stone ! 
 
 She by that green grave mourneth not alone : 
 There mourneth, too, her partner in the blow 
 That crush'd their joy ! Alas I what grief is shown 
 By all his acts ! Grief marks his victims so ! 
 
 Beneath that stone, their only child (how dear !— 
 How justly dear !) is laid ! Now Summers seven 
 Almost have fled since closed his life's career : 
 
 Thou, Earth ! no solace to their grief hast given ! 
 Thou canst not, shouldst not, dry Affliction's tear : 
 They weep till join'd with him again in Heaven ! 
 
109 
 
 TO A BEAUTIFULLY LIMPID STREAM 
 AT CHUDLEIGH. 
 
 Thou softly -murmuring, mazy, mountain -stream ! 
 On thy green banks I, youthful, oft reclined, 
 To see thy surface ruffled by the wind, 
 Or shine, like silver, in the sunny beam ! 
 
 Then, sooth 'd by flattering Hope's fallacious dream, 
 Thro* life I thought a pleasant course to find ; 
 With the proud wreath of Fame my brows to bind, 
 And gain, by worth, my fellow men's esteem ! 
 
 Thou, in thy verdant channel, still art fair, 
 And flow rs admire their colours in thy glass : 
 Unalter'd, they their garb of beauty wear! 
 
 But I by Grief and Time am changed, alas ! 
 Anguish attends my steps ; and scarce I bear 
 My load of sorrow as I grave-ward pass I 
 
110 
 
 TO THE REDEEMER. 
 
 Oft, Jesu ! I with Fervour's tongue have proved, 
 From thine own Word, weeping, that thou alone 
 The soul canst save, while crowds around unmoved 
 Sate, like the mural forms of sculptured stone ! 
 
 I oft have striven to make thee dearly loved 
 By felons, and have heard the piteous moan, 
 While from my face their tearful eyes ne'er roved, — 
 And signs of grief for guilt by all were shown : 
 
 And I far more have prized the contrite heart, 
 Tho' in a prisoner's iron-grated den, 
 When deep it felt Conviction's probing smart, 
 
 Than that of Honour's bands, whose sabbath-part, 
 Too oft, is play'd before their fellow men, — 
 While thou their rightful Lord, unheeded art ! 
 
Ill 
 
 TO A LADY. 
 
 in praise of exeter. 
 
 Dymchurch, August 1839. 
 
 Lady ! with thine my spirit dwells delighted 
 On grand Exonia ; she with charms is glowing : 
 Nature and Art therein, with pow 'rs united, 
 A picture form, fresh beauties ever showing ! 
 
 Painters and bards might there become excited 
 By her stream clear, fair-bridged, and softly flowing ; 
 Peter's bold tow'rs, streets rising, myrtles blighted 
 By Winter scarcely ; trees luxuriant growing ! 
 
 High on her Rougemont she a terrace raises; 
 And thence she shows, with gratified endeavour, 
 A prospect that th' unwearied sight amazes ! 
 
 A thick grove stands below, whereon iti eye gazes 
 With rapture ! Once beheld, her features never 
 Can be forgot, and Memory hymns her praises I 
 
112 
 
 TO THE DEITY. 
 
 impromp~t^ on being requested by a little girl 
 to write on the word god. 
 
 Written February 7th, 1839. 
 
 Yea I, of Thee, great God ! well-pleased will write : 
 Of Thee, for whom I feel transporting love : 
 Eternal One, who dwell'st in cloudless light ! 
 Of Thee, thro' whom I live, and speak, and move ! 
 
 Down, for my weal, Thou, thron'd above all height, 
 Thy Son didst send, to make my spirit prove 
 The blessings which my gratitude excite : 
 Ay, Thou, thro* Him, wouldst place my soul above ! 
 
 Of Thee I e'er will write, while sense remains 
 Within my breast ; and when no more mine hand 
 Of Thee can write, and Death within me reigns, — 
 
 L°ad thoi )ul along his shadowy land, 
 
 To join blest gels in their heavenly strains, 
 To Thee, whose throne thro' endless years shall stand 
 
 LONDON: PRINTED BY C. RICHARDS, ST. MARTIN'S LAME. 
 
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