SONNET XXV.

MAY 1793.

How shall I meet thee, Summer, wont to fill
My heart with gladness, when thy pleasant tide
First came, and on each coomb's romantick side
Was heard the distant cuckoo's hollow bill?

Fresh flow'rs shall fringe the wild brink of the stream,
As with the songs of joyance and of hope
The hedge-rows shall ring loud, and on the slope
The poplars sparkle in the transient beam;
The shrubs and laurels which I lov'd to tend,

Thinking their May-tide fragrance might delight, With many a peaceful charm, thee, my best friend, Shall put forth their green shoot, and cheer the sight! But I shall mark their hues with sick'ning eyes,

And weep for her who in the cold grave lies!

SONNET XXVI.

How blest with thee the path could I have trod

Of quiet life, above cold want's hard fate, (And little wishing more) nor of the great Envious, or their proud name! but it pleas'd GoD To take thee to his mercy: thou didst go In youth and beauty, go to thy death-bed; Ev'n whilst on dreams of bliss we fondly fed, years to come of comfort! -Be it so.

Of

Ere this I have felt sorrow; and ev'n now

(Tho' sometimes the unbidden thought must start, And half unman the miserable heart)

The cold dew I shall wipe from my sad brow, And say, since hopes of bliss on earth are vain, "Best friend, farewell, till we do meet again!"

VOL. I.

SONNET XXVII.

ON

REVISITING OXFORD.

I Never hear the sound of thy glad bells, OXFORD! and chime harmonious, but I say, (Sighing to think how time has worn away) "Some spirit speaks in the sweet tone that swells, "Heard after years of absence, from the vale "Where Cherwell winds." Most true it speaks the tale Of days departed, and its voice recalls

Hours of delight and hope in the gay tide

Of life, and many friends now scatter'd wide By many fates.-Peace be within thy walls!

I have scarce heart to visit thee; but yet,

Deny'd the joys sought in thy shades,-deny'd

Each better hope, since my poor

*****

died,

What I have ow'd to thee, my heart can ne'er forget!

SONNET XXVIII.

WRITTEN

AT MALVERN.

JULY II, 1793.

I

Shall behold far off thy tow'ring crest,

Proud Mountain! from thy heights as slow I stray

Down through the distant vale my homeward way, I shall behold, upon thy rugged breast,

The parting sun sit smiling: me the while

Escap'd the crowd, thoughts full of heaviness
May visit, as life's bitter losses press

Hard on my bosom: but I shall " beguile
"The thing I am," and think, that ev'n as thou
Dost lift in the pale beam thy forehead high,
Proud Mountain! (whilst the scatter'd vapours fly
Unheeded round thy breast) so, with calm brow,
The shades of sorrow I may meet, and wear
The smile unchang'd of peace, though prest by care!

SONNET XXIX.

ON

THE DEATH

OF THE

REV. WILLIAM BENWELL.

THOU

camest with kind looks, when on the brink Almost of death I strove, and with mild voice Didst soothe me, bidding my poor heart rejoice, Though smitten sore: Oh, I did little think That thou, my friend, wouldst the first victim fall To the stern King of Terrors! thou didst fly, By pity prompted, at the poor man's cry; And soon thyself wert stretch'd beneath the pall, Livid Infection's prey. The deep distress

Of her, who best thy inmost bosom knew, To whom thy faith was vow'd, thy soul was true, What pow'rs of falt'ring language shall express? As friendship bids, I feebly breathe my own, And sorrowing say, "Pure spirit, thou art gone!"