SONNET XX. NOVEMBER 1792. THERE is strange musick in the stirring wind, When low'rs th' autumnal eve, and all alone To the dark wood's cold covert thou art gone, Whose ancient trees on the rough slope reclin'd Rock, and at times scatter their tresses sear. If in such shades, beneath their murmuring, Chiefly if one, with whom such sweets at morn Who from these shades is gone, gone far away. SONNET XXI. APRIL 1793. WHOSE was that gentle voice, that whispering sweet, Most like soft musick, that might sometimes cheat. SONNET XXI. MAY 1793 As o'er these hills I take my silent rounds, Still on that vision which is flown I dwell! On images I lov'd, (alas, how well!) Now past, and but remember'd like sweet sounds Of yesterday! yet in my breast I keep Such recollections, painful though they seem, And hours of joy retrace, till from my dream I wake, and find them not: then I could weep To think that Time so soon each sweet devours; To think so soon life's first endearments fail, And we are still misled by Hope's smooth tale! Who, like a flatterer, when the happiest hours Are past, and most we wish her cheering lay, Will fly, as faithless and as fleet as they! SONNET XXIII. NETLEY ABBEY. FALL'N pile! I ask not what has been thy fate; But when the weak winds, wafted from the main, Through each rent arch, like spirits that complain, Come hollow to my ear, I meditate On this world's passing pageant, and the lot Of those who once full proudly in their prime And beauteous might have stood, till bow'd by time Or injury, their early boast forgot, They may have fallen like thee: Pale and forlorn, Their brow, besprent with thin hairs, white as snow, They lift, majestick yet; as they would scorn This short-liv'd scene of vanity and woe; Whilst on their sad looks smilingly they bear The trace of creeping age, and the dim hue of care! SONNET XXIV. HARMONY! thou tenderest nurse of pain, If that thy note's sweet magick e'er can heal Griefs which the patient spirit oft may feel, Oh! let me listen to thy songs again, Till Memory her fairest tints shall bring, More smooth along, the silent passions meet |