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SONNET VIII.

O POVERTY! though from thy haggard eye,
Thy cheerless mein, of every charm bereft,
Thy brow that Hope's last traces long have left,
Vain Fortune's feeble sons with terror fly;
I love thy solitary haunts to seek:-

For Pity, reckless of her own distress;

And Patience, in the pall of wretchedness,
That turns to the bleak storm her faded cheek;
And Piety, that never told her wrong;

And meek Content, whose griefs no more rebel;
And Genius, warbling sweet her saddest song;

And Sorrow, list'ning to a lost friend's knell, Long banish'd from the world's insulting throng;

With Thee, and thy unfriended offspring, dwell.

SONNET IX. .

AT DOVER CLIFFS,

JULY 20, 1787.

ON these white cliffs, that calm above the flood Uplift their shadowing heads, and, at their feet, Scarce hear the surge that has for

ages beat, Sure many a lonely wand'rer has stood;

And, whilst the lifted murmur met his ear,

And o'er the distant billows the still Eve

Sail'd slow, has thought of all his heart must leave To-morrow; of the friends he lov'd most dear; Of social scenes, from which he wept to part: But if, like me, he knew how fruitless all The thoughts that would full fain the past recall, Soon would he quell the risings of his heart, And brave the wild winds and unhearing tide, The World his country, and his GOD his guide.

SONNET X.r

AT OSTEND, LANDING,

JULY 21, 1787.

THE
HE orient beam illumes the parting oar-
From yonder azure track, emerging white,

The earliest sail slow gains upon the sight, And the blue wave comes ripling to the shoreMeantime far off the rear of darkness flies:

Yet, 'mid the beauties of the morn, unmov'd Like one for ever torn from all he lov'd, Tow'rds Albion's heights I turn my longing eyes, Where every pleasure seem'd erewhile to dwell: Yet boots it not to think or to complain, Musing sad ditties to the reckless main :To dreams like these, adieu!-the pealing bell Speaks of the hour that stays not,—and the day To life's sad turmoil calls my heart away.

SONNET XI.*

AT OSTEND,

JULY 22, 1787.

How sweet the tuneful bells' responsive peal!
As when, at opening morn, the fragrant breeze
Breathes on the trembling sense of wan disease,
So piercing to my heart their force I feel!
And hark! with lessening cadence now they fall,
And now, along the white and level tide,
They fling their melancholy musick wide;
Bidding me many a tender thought recall
Of summer-days, and those delightful years

When by my native streams, in life's fair prime, The mournful magick of their mingling chime First wak'd my wond'ring childhood into tears! But seeming now, when all those days are o'er, The sounds of joy once heard, and heard no more.

SONNET XII. *

ON THE RHINE.

'TWAS morn, and beauteous on the mountain's

brow,

(Hung with bright clusters of the bending vine) Stream'd the blue light, when on the sparkling

Rhine

We bounded, and the white waves round the

In murmurs parted;-varying as we go,

prow

Lo! the woods open, and the rocks retire, Some convent's ancient walls, or glist'ning spire, 'Mid the bright landscape's track, unfolding slow. Here dark with furrow'd aspect, like despair,

Hangs the bleak cliff-there on the woodland's side The shadowy sunshine pours its streaming tide; Whilst hope, inchanted with the scene so fair, Would wish to linger many a summer's day, Nor heeds how fast the prospect winds away.