AN EVENING IN NOVEMBER,
WHICH HAD BEEN STORMY, GRADUALLY CLEARING UP,
IN A MOUNTAINOUS COUNTRY.
Ceas'd is the rain; but heavy drops yet fall
From the drench'd roof;—yet murmurs the sunk wind
Round the dim hills; can yet a passage find
Whistling thro' yon cleft rock, and ruin'd wall.
The swoln and angry torrents heard, appal,
Tho' distant.—A few stars, emerging kind,
Shed their green, trembling beams.—With lustre small,
The moon, her swiftly-passing clouds behind,
Glides o'er that shaded hill.—Now blasts remove
The shadowing clouds, and on the mountain's brow,
Full-orb'd, she shines.—Half sunk within its cove
Heaves the lone boat, with gulphing sound;—and lo!
Bright rolls the settling lake, and brimming rove
The vale's blue rills, and glitter as they flow.
SONNET XIX.
TO ——.
Farewell, false Friend!—our scenes of kindness close!
To cordial looks, to sunny smiles farewell!
To sweet consolings, that can grief expel,
And every joy soft sympathy bestows!
For alter'd looks, where truth no longer glows,
Thou hast prepar'd my heart;—and it was well
To bid thy pen th' unlook'd for story tell,
Falsehood avow'd, that shame, nor sorrow knows.—
O! when we meet,—(to meet we're destin'd, try
To avoid it as thou may'st) on either brow,
Nor in the stealing consciousness of eye,
Be seen the slightest trace of what, or how
We once were to each other;—nor one sigh
Flatter with weak regret a broken vow!
SONNET XX.
ON READING A DESCRIPTION OF POPE's GARDENS
AT TWICKENHAM.
Ah! might I range each hallow'd bower and glade
Musæus cultur'd, many a raptur'd sigh
Wou'd that dear, local consciousness supply
Beneath his willow, in the grotto's shade,
Whose roof his hand with ores and shells inlaid.
How sweet to watch, with reverential eye,
Thro' the sparr'd arch, the streams he oft survey'd,
Thine, blue Thamésis, gently wandering by!
This is the Poet's triumph, and it towers
O'er Life's pale ills, his consciousness of powers
That lift his memory from Oblivion's gloom,
Secure a train of these heart-thrilling hours
By his idea deck'd in rapture's bloom,
For Spirits rightly touch'd, thro' ages yet to come.
SONNET XXI.
Proud of our lyric Galaxy, I hear
Of faded Genius with supreme disdain;
As when we see the Miser bend insane
O'er his full coffers, and in accents drear
Deplore imagin'd want;—and thus appear
To me those moody Censors, who complain,
As [1]Shaftsbury plain'd in a now boasted reign,
That “Poesy had left our darken'd sphere.”
Whence may the present stupid dream be traced
That now she shines not as in days foregone?
Perchance neglected, often shine in waste
Her Lights, from number into confluence run,
More than when thinly in th' horizon placed
Each Orb shone separate, and appear'd a Sun.