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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 loeks; 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 ʼmid 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 hapły 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, growlid 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 upreard,
And Virtue stood erect and Patience smild,
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 PER-

SONIFICATION. He whom she employs
To deck. her labors and increase her joys.

J. I

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

And the wild sea that to the tempest raves; To 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

prayer and waxes pale ? O God have mercy on the mariner !

up a silent

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