SONNET XIII. *

AT A CONVENT.

1

IF chance some pensive stranger, hither led,
(His bosom glowing from majestick views,
The gorgeous dome, or the proud landscape's
hues)

Should ask who sleeps beneath this lowly bed-
'Tis poor MATILDA! To the cloister'd scene

A mourner, beauteous and unknown, she came,
To shed her tears unmark'd, and quench the flame
Of fruitless love: yet was her look serene
As the pale moon-light in the midnight isle-

Her voice was soft, which yet a charm could lend
Like that which spoke of a departed friend,
And a meek sadness sat upon her smile!-
Be the rude spot by passing pity blest,

Where, hush'd to long repose, the wretched rest.

O TIME! who know'st a lenient hand to lay
Softest on sorrow's wound, and slowly thence
(Lulling to sad repose the weary sense)
The faint pang stealest unperceiv'd away;
On Thee I rest my only hope at last,

I

And think, when thou hast dried the bitter tear That flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear,

may look back on every sorrow past,

And meet life's peaceful evening with a smile

As some lone bird, at day's departing hour,

Sings in the sunbeam, of the transient shower Forgetful, though its wings are wet the while:Yet ah! how much must that poor heart endure, Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure!

C

SONNET XV.

LANGUID, and sad, and slow from day to day, I journey on, yet pensive turn to view

(Where the rich landscape gleams with softer hue) The streams, and vales, and hills, that steal away. So fares it with the children of the earth:

For when life's goodly prospect opens round, Their spirits beat to tread that fairy ground, Where every vale sounds to the pipe of mirth. But them vain hope, and easy youth beguiles,

And soon a longing look, like me, they cast Back on the pleasing prospect of the past: Yet fancy points where still far onward smiles Some sunny spot, and her fair colouring blends, Till cheerless on their path the night descends.

SONNET XVI.×

ON

A DISTANT VIEW OF ENGLAND.

AH! from mine eyes the tears unbidden start,
Albion! as now thy cliffs (that white appear
Far o'er the wave, and their proud summits rear
To meet the beams of morn) my beating heart
With eager hope and filial transport hails!

Scenes of my youth, reviving gales ye bring,
As when erewhile the tuneful morn of spring
Joyous awoke amidst your blooming vales,
And fill'd with fragrance every painted plain:

Fled are those hours, and all the joys they gave, Yet still I gaze, and count each rising wave That bears me nearer to your haunts again; If haply, 'mid those woods and vales so fair, Stranger to peace, I yet may meet her there.

SONNET XVII. *

TO THE

RIVER CHERWELL.

CHERWELL, how pleas'd along thy willow'd edge
Erewhile I stray'd, or when the morn began
To tinge the distant turret's gleamy fan,
Ör Evening glimmer'd o'er the sighing sedge!
And now reposing on thy banks once more,
I bid the pipe farewell, and that sad lay
Whose musick on my melancholy way
I woo'd: amid thy waving willows hoar
Seeking awhile to rest―till the bright sun

Of joy return, as when Heaven's beauteous bow
Beams on the night-storms passing wings below:
Whate'er betide, yet something have I won

Of solace, that may bear me on serene,

'Till Eve's last hush shall close the silent scene.