SONNET XXIII.

NETLEY ABBEY.

FALL'N pile! I ask not what has been thy fate,— But when the weak winds, wafted from the main, Thro' each lone arch, like spirits that complain, Come hollow to my ear, I meditate

On this world's passing pageant, and the lot

Of those who once might proudly in their prime

Have stood, with giant port; till bow'd by time Or injury, their ancient boast forgot,

They might have sunk, like thee: tho' thus forlorn,
They lift their head, with venerable hairs
Besprent, majestick yet, and as in scorn

Of mortal vanities and short-liv'd cares:
Ev'n so dost thou, lifting thy forehead grey,
Smile at the tempest, and time's sweeping sway.

SONNET XXIV.

MAY 1793.

How shall I meet thee, Summer, wont to fill
My heart with gladness, when thy pleasant tide
First came, and on each coomb's romantick side
Was heard the distant cuckoo's hollow bill?
Fresh flowers shall fringe the wild brink of the stream,
As with the songs of joyance and of hope
The hedge-rows shall ring loud, and on the slope
The poplars sparkle in the transient beam;
The shrubs and laurels which I lov❜d to tend,

Thinking their May-tide fragrance might delight, With many a peaceful charm, thee, my best friend, Shall put forth their green shoots, and cheer the sight!

But I shall mark their hues with sick'ning eyes,

And weep for her who in the cold

grave lies!

SONNET XXV.

How blest with thee the path could I have trod
Of quiet life, above cold want's hard fate,
(And little wishing more) nor of the great
Envious, or their proud name! but it pleas'd GoD
To take thee to his mercy: thou didst

go

In youth and beauty, go to thy death-bed;

Ev'n whilst on dreams of bliss we fondly fed,

Of years to come of comfort!-Be it so.—
Ere this I have felt sorrow; and ev'n now

(Tho' sometimes the unbidden thought must start, And half unman the miserable heart)

The cold dew I shall wipe from my sad brow, And say, since hopes of bliss on earth are vain, "Best friend, farewell, till we do meet again!"

SONNET XXVI.

ON

REVISITING OXFORD.

I

Never hear the sound of thy glad bells,
OXFORD! and chime harmonious, but I

say,

(Sighing to think how time has worn away) "Some spirit speaks in the sweet tone that swells, "Heard after years of absence, from the vale "Where Cherwell winds." Most true it speaks

the tale

Of days departed, and its voice recalls

Hours of delight and hope in the gay tide
Of life, and many friends now scatter'd wide
By many fates.-Peace be within thy walls!
I have scarce heart to visit thee; but yet,

Denied the joys sought in thy shades,-denied
Each better hope, since my poor

***** died,

What I have owed to thee, my heart can ne'er forget!

SONNET XXVII

WRITTEN

AT MALVERN,

JULY II, 1793.

I Shall behold far off thy tow'ring crest,
Proud Mountain: from thy heights as slow I stray,

Down through the distant vale my homeward way, I shall behold, upon thy rugged breast,

The parting sun sit smiling: me the while
Escap'd the croud, thoughts full of heaviness
May visit, as life's bitter losses press

Hard on my bosom: but I shall “ "beguile
"The thing I am," and think, that (ev'n as thou
Dost lift in the pale beam thy forehead high,
Proud Mountain! whilst the scatter'd vapours fly
Unheeded round thy breast) so, with calm brow,
The shades of sorrow I may meet, and wear

The smile unchang'd of peace, tho' press'd by care!