SONNET III.

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 flowers the lunar beam :
What time, in sickly mood, at parting day

I lay me down and think of happier years;
Of Joys, that glimmer'd in Hope's twilight ray,
Then left me darkling in a vale of tears.

O pleasant days of Hope-for ever flown!

Could I recall you !-But that thought is vain.
Availeth not Persuasion's sweetest tone

To lure the fleet-wing'd Travellers back again :
Yet fair, tho' faint, their images shall gleam
Like the bright Rainbow on an evening stream.

SONNET IV.

To the RIVER OTTER.

1

Dear native Brook! wild Streamlet of the West!
How many various-fated Years have past,
What blissful and what anguish'd hours, since last
I skimm'd the smooth thin stone along thy breast,

Numbering its light leaps! Yet so deep imprest Sink the sweet scenes of Childhood, that mine eyes I never shut amid the sunny blaze,

But strait with all their tints thy waters rise,

Thy crossing plank, thy margin's willowy maze,

And bedded sand that vein'd with various dies Gleam'd thro' thy bright transparence to the gaze! Visions of Childhood! oft have ye beguil'd

Lone Manhood's cares, yet waking fondest sighs,

Ah! that once more I were a careless Child!

SONNET V.

Sweet Mercy! how my very heart has bled
To see thee, poor OLD MAN! and thy grey hairs
Hoar with the snowy blast; while no one cares
To cloathe thy shrivell'd limbs and palsied head.
My Father! throw away this tatter'd vest

That mocks thy shiv'ring! take my garment-use A young man's arm! I'll melt these frozen dews That hang from thy white beard and numb thy breast. My SARA too shall tend thee, like a child :

And thou shalt talk, in our fire side's recess,
Of purple Pride, that scowls on Wretchedness..

He did not scowl, the GALILEAN mild,

Who met the Lazar turn'd from rich man's doors, And call'd him Friend, and wept upon his sores!

SONNET VI.

Pale Roamer thro' the Night! thou poor forlorn! Remorse that man on his death-bed possess,

Who in the credulous hour of tenderness

Betray'd, then cast thee forth to Want and scorn!
The world is pityless; the Chaste one's pride,
Mimic of Virtue, scowls on thy distress;
Thy kindred, when they see thee, turn aside,
And Vice alone will shelter Wretchedness!
O! I am sad to think, that there should be
Men, born of woman, who endure to place
Foul offerings on the shrine of Misery,

And force from FAMINE the caress of Love!
Man has no feeling for thy sore Disgrace :

Keen blows the Blast upon the moulting Dove!

SONNET VII.

As late I lay in slumber's shadowy vale,

With wetted cheek and in a mourner's guise
I saw the sainted form of FREEDOM rise :

She spake! not sadder moans the autumnal gale.
"Great Son of Genius! sweet to me thy name,
"Ere in an evil hour with alter'd voice

"Thou bad'st Oppression's hireling crew rejoice
"Blasting with wizard spell my laurell'd fame.
"Yet never, BURKE! thou drank'st Corruption's bowl!
"Thee stormy Pity and the cherish'd lure

"Of Pomp, and proud Precipitance of soul
"Wilder'd with meteor fires. Ah Spirit pure!
"That error's mist had left thy purged eye :
"So might I clasp thee with a Mother's joy !"