O'ershadowing sorrow doth not make thee less Delightful: thou thy griefs dost dress

With a bright halo, shining beamily,

As when a cloud the golden moon doth veil,
Its sides are tinged with a resplendent glow,
Through the dark robe oft amber rays prevail,
And like fair veins in sable marble flow.
Still warble, dying swan! still tell the tale,
The enchanting tale, the tale of pleasing woe.

S

PENSER! a jealous honourer of thine,'

A forester deep in thy midmost trees,

Did, last eve, ask my promise to refine Some English, that might strive thine ear to please.

* I am enabled by the kindness of Mr. W. A. Longmore, nephew of Mr. J. W. Reynolds, to give an exact transcript of this sonnet as written and given to his mother, by the poet, at his father's house

in Little Britain. The poem is dated, in Mrs. Longmore's hand, Feb. 5th, 1818, but it seems to me impossible that it can have been other than an

early production and of the especially Spenserian time.

SPENSER! a jealous honour (sic) of thine
A Forester deep in thy midmost Trees
Did last eve ask my promise to refine

Some English that might strive thine ear to please
But Elfin Poet 'tis impossible

For an inhabitant of wintry earth

To rise like Phoebus with a golden quill

Fire wing'd and make a morning in his mirth

It is impossible to escape from toil

O'the sudden and receive thy spiriting

The flower must drink the nature of the soil
Before it can but (sic) forth its blossoming
Be with me in the summer days and I
Will for thine honour and his pleasure try.

T. K.

But, Elfin-poet! 'tis impossible For an inhabitant of wintry earth

To rise, like Phoebus, with a golden quill, Fire-wing'd, and make a morning in his mirth. It is impossible to 'scape from toil

O' the sudden, and receive thy spiriting:

The flower must drink the nature of the soil Before it can put forth its blossoming:

Be with me in the summer days, and I
Will for thine honour and his pleasure try.

TO MY BROTHER GEORGE.

ANY the wonders I this day have seen: The sun, when first he kist away the tears That fill'd the eyes of Morn ;-the laurell'd peers Who from the feathery gold of evening lean ;The Ocean with its vastness, its blue green,

Its ships, its rocks, its caves, its hopes, its fears, Its voice mysterious, which whoso hears Must think on what will be, and what has been. E'en now, dear George, while this for you I write, Cynthia is from her silken curtains peeping So scantly, that it seems her bridal night,

And she her half-discover'd revels keeping. But what, without the social thought of thee,

Would be the wonders of the sky and sea?

!

SONNET.

S from the darkening gloom a silver dove Upsoars, and darts into the eastern light, On pinions that nought moves but pure delight, So fled thy soul into the realms above, Regions of peace and everlasting love;

Where happy spirits, crown'd with circlets bright Of starry beam, and gloriously bedight,

Taste the high joy none but the blest can prove. There thou or joinest the immortal quire

In melodies that even heaven fair Fill with superior bliss, or, at desire,

O' the omnipotent Father, cleav'st the air On holy message sent-What pleasure's higher ? Wherefore does any grief our joy impair?

1816.

WRITTEN ON A SUMMER EVENING.'

T

HE church bells toll'd a melancholy round,

Calling the people to some other prayers, Some other gloominess, more dreadful cares, More hearkening to the sermon's horrid sound. Surely the mind of man is closely bound

To some blind spell: seeing that each one tears

This is a rare instance of the poet's associations with any anti-religious feeling or the free thought of the time. expression, notwithstanding

Himself from fireside joys and Lydian airs, Fond converse high of those with glory crown'd. Still, still they toll, and I should feel a damp, A chill as from a tomb, did I not know That they are dying like an outburnt lamp,— That 'tis their sighing, wailing, as they go Into oblivion-that fresh flowers will grow, And many glories of immortal stamp.

1816.

TO G. A. W.

YMPH of the downward smile and side-
long glance!

In what diviner moments of the day
Art thou most lovely? when gone far astray
Into the labyrinths of sweet utterance?
Or when serenely wandering in a trance

Of sober thought? Or when starting away, With careless robe to meet the morning ray, Thou sparest the flowers in thy mazy dance? Haply 'tis when thy ruby lips part sweetly,

And so remain, because thou listenest: But thou to please wert nurtured so completely That I can never tell what mood is best, I shall as soon pronounce which Grace more neatly Trips it before Apollo than the rest.

H

TO

AD I a man's fair form, then might my sighs Be echoed swiftly through that ivory shell, Thine ear, and find thy gentle heart; so well Would passion arm me for the enterprise : But ah! I am no knight whose foeman dies; No cuirass glistens on my bosom's swell; I am no happy shepherd of the dell Whose lips have trembled with a maiden's eyes. Yet must I doat upon thee,-call thee sweet, Sweeter by far than Hybla's honey'd roses When steep'd in dew rich to intoxication. Ah! I will taste that dew, for me 'tis meet, And when the moon her pallid face discloses, I'll gather some by spells, and incantation.

TO A FRIEND WHO SENT ME
SOME ROSES.

S late I rambled in the happy fields, What time the skylark shakes the tremulous dew

From his lush clover covert;-when anew Adventurous knights take up their dinted shields; I saw the sweetest flower wild nature yields,

A fresh-blown musk-rose; 'twas the first that threw Its sweets upon the summer: graceful it grew VOL. II.

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