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!"

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,

Denied the joys sought in thy shades,-denied

Each better hope, since my poor

****** died,

What I have owed 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 croud, 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!"

SONNET XXX.

ON

REVIEWING THE FOREGOING.

SEPT. 21st, 1797.

I Turn these leaves with thronging thoughts, and say,
"Alas! how many friends of youth are dead,
66 How many visions of fair hope have fled,
"Since first, my Muse, we met:"-Sc speeds away
Life, and its shadows; yet we sit and sing,
Stretch'd in the noontide bow'r, as if the day
Declin'd not, and we yet might trill our lay
Beneath the pleasant morning's purple wing
That fans us, while aloft the gay clouds shine!
Oh, ere the coming of the long cold night,
RELIGION, may we bless thy purer light,
That still shall warm us, when the tints decline
O'er earth's dim hemisphere, and sad we gaze
On the vain visions of our passing days!