SONNET XVIII. As one who, long by wasting sickness worn, Weary has watch'd the ling'ring night, and heard Salute his lonely porch, now first at morn Or turns his ear to every random song, Heard the green river's winding marge along, The whilst each sense is steep'd in still delight. With such delight, o'er all Sweet Hope! thy fragrance pure and healing incense steal! my heart I feel, L SONNET XIX. OCTOBER 1792. GO then, and join the roaring city's throng! To me the hours shall roll, weary and slow, |