SONNET XIII.

AT

A CONVENT.

If chance some pensive stranger, hither led,

(His bosom glowing from majestick views,

The gorgeous dome, or the proud landscape's hues) Should ask who sleeps beneath this lowly bed

'Tis

poor MATILDA!-To the cloister'd scene,

A mourner, beauteous and unknown, she came, To shed her tears unmark'd, and quench the flame Of fruitless love: yet was her look serene As the pale moonlight in the midnight aisle;—

Her voice was soft, which yet a charm could lend, Like that which spoke of a departed friend, And a meek sadness sat upon her smile!Now, far remov'd from every earthly ill, Her woes are bury'd, and her heart is still.

VOL. I.

SONNET XIV.

OTIME! who know'st a lenient hand to lay
Softest on sorrow's wound, and slowly thence
(Lulling to sad repose the weary sense)
The faint pang stealest unperceiv'd away;
On Thee I rest my only hope at last,

And think, when thou hast dry'd the bitter tear
That flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear,
I may look back on every sorrow past,
And meet life's peaceful evening with a smile-

As some lone bird, at day's departing hour,

Sings in the sunbeam, of the transient show'r Forgetful, though its wings are wet the while:Yet ah! how much must that poor heart endure, Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure!

SONNET XV.

LANGUID, and sad, and slow, from day to day I journey on, yet pensive turn to view

(Where the rich landscape gleams with softer hue) The streams, and vales, and hills, that steal away. So fares it with the children of the earth:

For when life's goodly prospect opens round, Their spirits beat to tread that fairy ground, Where every vale sounds to the pipe of mirth. But them vain hope and easy youth beguiles,

And soon a longing look, like me, they cast Back on the pleasing prospect of the past: Yet Fancy points where still far onward smiles Some sunny spot, and her fair colouring blends, 'Till cheerless on their path the night descends.

SONNET XVI.

ON

A DISTANT VIEW OF ENGLAND.

AH! from mine eyes the tears unbidden start, As thee, my country, and the long-lost sight Of thy own cliffs, that lift their summits white Above the wave, once more my beating heart With eager hope and filial transport hails!

Scenes of my youth, reviving gales ye bring, As when erewhile the tuneful morn of spring Joyous awoke amidst your blooming vales, And fill'd with fragrance every painted plain: Fled are those hours, and all the joys they gave! Yet still I gaze, and count each rising wave That bears me nearer to your haunts again; If haply, 'mid those woods and vales so fair, Stranger to Peace, I yet may meet her there.

SONNET XVII.

TO THE

RIVER CHERWELL, OXFORD.

CHERWELL! how pleas'd along thy willow'd hedge

Erewhile I stray'd, or when the morn began
To tinge the distant turret's gleamy fan,
Or evening glimmer'd o'er the sighing sedge!
And now reposing on thy banks once more,
I bid the pipe farewell, and that sad lay
Whose musick on my melancholy way
I woo'd: amid thy waving willows hoar
Seeking awhile to rest-till the bright sun

Of joy return, as when Heaven's beauteous bow
Beams on the night-storm's passing wings below:
Whate'er betide, yet something have I won
Of solace, that may bear me on serene,

'Till Eve's last hush shall close the silent scene.