How sweet to rove, from summer sun-beams veil'd,
In gloomy dingles; or to trace the tide
Of wandering brooks, their pebbly beds that chide;
To feel the west-wind cool refreshment yield,
That comes soft creeping o'er the flowery field,
And shadow'd waters; in whose bushy side
The Mountain-Bees their fragrant treasure hide
Murmuring; and sings the lonely Thrush conceal'd!—
Then, Ceremony, in thy gilded halls,
Where forc'd and frivolous the themes arise,
With bow and smile unmeaning, O! how palls
At thee, and thine, my sense!—how oft it sighs
For leisure, wood-lanes, dells, and water-falls;
And feels th' untemper'd heat of sultry skies!
SONNET XII.
Chill'd by unkind Honora's alter'd eye,
“Why droops my heart with fruitless woes forlorn,”
Thankless for much of good?—what thousands, born
To ceaseless toil beneath this wintry sky,
Or to brave deathful Oceans surging high,
Or fell Disease's fever'd rage to mourn,
How blest to them wou'd seem my destiny!
How dear the comforts my rash sorrows scorn!—
Affection is repaid by causeless hate!
A plighted love is chang'd to cold disdain!
Yet suffer not thy wrongs to shroud thy fate,
But turn, my Soul, to blessings which remain;
And let this truth the wise resolve create,
The Heart estranged no anguish can regain.
SONNET XIII.
Thou child of Night, and Silence, balmy Sleep,
Shed thy soft poppies on my aching brow!
And charm to rest the thoughts of whence, or how
Vanish'd that priz'd Affection, wont to keep
Each grief of mine from rankling into woe.
Then stern Misfortune from her bended bow
Loos'd the dire strings;—and Care, and anxious Dread
From my cheer'd heart, on sullen pinion, fled.
But now, the spell dissolv'd, th' Enchantress gone,
Ceaseless those cruel Fiends infest my day,
And sunny hours but light them to their prey.
Then welcome Midnight shades, when thy wish'd boon
May in oblivious dews my eye-lids steep,
Thou Child of Night, and Silence, balmy Sleep!
SONNET XIV.
Ingratitude, how deadly is thy smart
Proceeding from the Form we fondly love!
How light, compared, all other sorrows prove!
Thou shed'st a Night of Woe, from whence depart
The gentle beams of Patience, that the heart
'Mid lesser ills, illume.—Thy Victims rove
Unquiet as the Ghost that haunts the Grove
Where Murder spilt the life-blood.—O! thy dart
Kills more than Life,—e'en all that makes Life dear;
Till we “the sensible of pain” wou'd change
For Phrenzy, that defies the bitter tear;
Or wish, in kindred callousness, to range
Where moon-ey'd Idiocy, with fallen lip,
Drags the loose knee, and intermitting step.