I love to mark the silver-curling spray,
Just kiss the pebbled shore; the zephyr blows,
And ocean slumbers in serene repose;
While the moon’s beams in quiv’ring radiance play
Upon its surface: yet ere long, that tide
May heave its foaming billows to the shore,
And the sea boil in one tempestuous roar.
See here thy picture, man! reason, thy guide,
Can lull each gust of passion into rest;
Her aid divine, her energy once lost,
In what a sea of angry tumults tost,
Raves the mad whirlwind of thy troubled breast!
Blind passion then can reason’s aid refute,
And degradate the man to worse than brute.
SONNET VI.
On seeing Llangollen Vale.
O thou, too captious of each airy scheme,
Fancy! thou dear delusive traitor, say,
Are not thy charms the phantoms of a day,
That mock possession, like a fleeting dream?
Here could I spend, if such had been my lot,
Quiet my life; nor should the shiv’ring poor
Depart unfed, unaided, from my door.
“Content is wealth,” the emblem of my cot.
Here, by the brook, that gently babbles by,
Should stand my garden; there the blushing rose
And woodbine should their sweetest scent disclose.
But ah! farewell these dreams;—my big full eye
Swells with the bursting tear—I think, how few
The road to real happiness pursue!
SONNET VII.
Prospect of Sun-rise from Snowdon.
How grand the scene from this stupendous height!
How awfully sublime! the king of day
Flames in the east; old ocean’s waves display
One globe of fire! one boundless flood of light!
With what unclouded lustre blaze the skies!
While [209] Mona’s flats, ting’d with a golden hue,
Burst with transcendent beauty on the view;
And, Man, thy scarce seen mountains proudly rise.
Nature, beneath, seems prostrate! and my sight
Can hardly grasp the vast immensity!
Can then the muse attempt to sing of thee,
Nature’s great God! Father of life and light!
Who bade the sun his annual circle roll,
Who guides, directs, and animates the whole.
SONNET VIII.
To my Dog.
Yes, thou hast been companion of my Tour,
And partner of my toils! hast rov’d with me,
Thro’ Cambria’s rude and wild variety,
And often sooth’d the solitary hour
With thy caresses; yet false man can claim
Superior reason, claim a mind endued
With love, with faithfulness, and gratitude;
Love, a mere sound, and gratitude, a name.
Yes, faithful creature! and when thou art gone,
With fond attention shall thy bones be laid,
And a small tribute to thy mem’ry paid,
In these few words, engraven on thy stone:
“Here let in peace the faithful Sylvio lie,
The truest picture of fidelity!”