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SONNET XVI.

STONEHENGE,

By the late ROBERT LOVELL.

Was it a Spirit on yon shapeless pile?

It wore methought an hoary Druid's form,
Musing on ancient days! the dying storm
Moan'd in his lifted locks; thou Night! the while
Dost listen to his sad harp's wild complaint,
Mother of Shadows! as to thee he pours

The broken strain, and plaintively deplores
The fall of Druid Fame! Hark! murmurs faint
Breathe on the wavy Air! and now more loud
- Swells the deep dirge accustom'd to complain
Of holy rites unpaid, and of the crowd

Whose careless steps these sacred haunts profane. O'er the wild plain the hurrying tempest flies,

And 'mid the storm unheard, the song of Sorrow dies.

SONNET XVII.

By the late ROBERT LOVELL.

The cloudy blackness gathers o'er the sky
Shadowing these realms with that portentous storm
Ere long to burst and haply to deform
Fair Nature's face: for Indignation high
Might hurl promiscuous vengeance with wild hand
And Fear, with fierce precipitation throw

Blind ruin wide: while Hate with scowling brow
Feigns patriot rage. O PRIESTLEY, for thy wand,
Or FRANKLIN ! thine, with calm expectant joy
To tame the storm and with mysterious force
In viewless channel shape the lightning's course
To purify Creation, not destroy.

So should fair order from the Tempest rise

And Freedom's sun-beams gild unclouded skies.

SONNET XVIII.

METAPHOR.

When Earth was young and Nature Man's delight, The protean Friend of Poesy arose.

His eyes around with wonder wild he throws And soars a mountain; high in æther bright

His summit nods. Then as electric fire,

With swift mutation, from the Earth he rang'd
To Heaven a massive pillar; soon he chang'd
To lion-fronted Pard, growl'd and retir'd
An Ocean: nor remain'd he Ocean long

For loud in thunder roar'd his awful voice

With lightning instantaneous. As her choice
Sweet Poesy directs, in numbers strong
Or soft, or fluent, so he drives her car
And later Minstrels call him METAPHOR.

J. J.

SONNET XIX.

PERSONIFICATION.

Nor did sweet Poesy long time defer
To ask the aid of him who hand in hand
With METAPHOR arose. At his command
Rocks, mountains, vallies living souls appear'd,
Catastrophe his sadd'ning front uprear'd,

And Virtue stood erect and Patience smil'd,
And Joy, Love, Hope, and Fear, Amazement wild,

And Heaven assum'd a virile form, whilst stood
Ocean contracted to a man.

The brood

Of Vice in black-brow'd frown; Revenge and Hate, Discord and Death, and stern defying Fate, Walk'd o'er the earth, destroying. Such is PERSONIFICATION. He whom she employs To deck her labors and increase her joys.

J. J

SONNET XX.

O God! have mercy in this dreadful hour
On the poor mariner! in comfort here
Safe sheltered as I am, I almost fear
The blast that rages with resistless power.
What were it now to toss upon the waves

The maddened waves and know no succour near,
The howling of the storm alone to hear

To

And the wild sea that to the tempest raves;
gaze amid the horrors of the night

And only see the billow's gleaming light;
Amid the dread of death to think of her
Who as she listens sleepless to the gale
Puts up a silent prayer and waxes pale ?

O God have mercy on the mariner!

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