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Ah ! quiet day, I oft recal the time,

When I did chace my childish sluggishness,

(The “rear of darkness ling'ring still") to dress In due sort for thy coming : the first chime Of blithesome bells, that usher'd in the morn,

Carol'd to me of rest and simplest mirth :

'Twas then all happiness on the wide earth To gaze ! I little dreamt, that man was born For ought but wholesome toil and holiest praise

Thanking that God who made him to rejoice! But I am changed now ! nor could I raise

My sunken spirit at thy well-known voice; But that thou seemest soothingly to say, “ Look up poor mourner, to a 'BETTER DAY.”'

SONNET XII.

ON THE APPROACH OF AUTUMN.

Farewell! gay Summer! now the changing wind

That Autumn brings, commands thee to retreat, It fades the roses which thy temples bind

And the green sandals which adorn thy feet. Now flies with thee the walk at eventide

That fav'ring hour to bright-ey'd Fancy dear, When most she loves to seek the mountain side

And mark the pomp of twilight hast'ning near. Ah then, what faery forms around her throng! On

every cloud a magic charm she sees : Sweet Evening these delights to thee belong,

But now alas ! comes Autumn's chilling breeze And early night attendant on its sway Rears in her envious veil, sweet fancy's hour away.

A. OPIE. 1793,

SONNET XIII.

Why will you break upon my sorrows ? why

Disturb the silent anguish of my soul?

Oh I am drunk with Sorrow's bitter bowl, And clad in woe the spectre Memory Haunts me; and 'Hope that rais'd her beauteous brow

Erewhile in sorrow smiling, as the flower

Blooms thro' the dew, now droops. The gloomy hour Is come of black Despair. O leave me now To woo the charm of Silence, and to try

Awhile to calm the troubled waves of woe.

Meek silent Sorrow hates the pageant show
The pomp of Pride and rout of Revelry:
Go thou gáy Youth and Health's rich harvest reap,
Plunge thou in pleasure, but leave me to weep.

S. F.

SONNET XIV.

How soothing sweet methinks it is to walk

By moonlight, when the still delicious calm

Sheds o'er the love-lorn soul a grateful balm, And woos the woe to peace ! O then I talk, Rapt in myself as slow I pace along,

Of hopeless Love, and weep upon my wounds,

Soft as the hollow gale's expiring sounds,
Soft as the veiled virgin's evening song,
Soft as mild Melancholy's noiseless tread.

Thus breathing many a plaint and many a sigh,
I

gaze the moon with fondly-fixed eye Musing on many a lovely vision filed Hopeless and sad, till down I sink to rest, By sorrow, silence, solitude, opprest.

S. F. SONNET XV.

That gooseberry-bush attracts my wandering eyes,

Whose vivid leaves so beautifully green

First opening in the early spring are seen ; I sit and gaze, and cheerful thoughts arise Of that delightful season drawing near

When those grey woods shall don their summer dress

And ring with warbled love and happiness.
I sit and think that soon the advancing year
With golden flowers shall star the verdant vale.

Then may the enthusiast Youth at eve's lone hour,

Led by mild Melancholy's placid power,
Go listen to the soothing nightingale
And feed on meditation ; while that I
Remain at home and feed on gooseberry-pye.

K

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