SONNET III.
Let ancient stories sound the painter's art,
Who stole from many a maid his Venus' charms,
'Till warm devotion fir'd each gazer's heart,
And every bosom bounded with alarms.
He cull'd the beauties of his native isle,
From some the blush of beauty's vermeil dyes,
From some the lovely look, the winning smile,
From some the languid lustre of the eyes.
Low to the finish'd form the nations round
In adoration bent the pious knee;
With myrtle wreaths the artist's brow they crown'd,
Whose skill, Ariste, only imaged thee.
Ill-fated artist, doom'd so wide to seek
The charms that blossom on Ariste's cheek!
BION.
SONNET IV.
I Praise thee not, Ariste, that thine eye
Knows each emotion of the soul to speak;
That lillies with thy face might fear to vie,
And roses can but emulate thy cheek.
I praise thee not because thine auburn hair
In native tresses wantons on the wind;
Nor yet because that face, surpassing fair,
Bespeaks the inward excellence of mind:
'Tis that soft charm thy minstrel's heart has won,
That mild meek goodness that perfects the rest;
Soothing and soft it steals upon the breast,
As the soft radiance of the setting sun,
When varying through the purple hues of light,
The fading orbit smiles serenely bright.
BION.
SONNET V.
DUNNINGTON-CASTLE.
Thou ruin'd relique of the ancient pile,
Rear'd by that hoary bard, whose tuneful lyre
First breath'd the voice of music on our isle;
Where, warn'd in life's calm evening to retire,
Old Chaucer slowly sunk at last to night;
Still shall his forceful line, his varied strain,
A firmer, nobler monument remain,
When the high grass waves o'er thy lonely site;
And yet the cankering tooth of envious age
Has sapp'd the fabric of his lofty rhyme;
Though genius still shall ponder o'er the page,
And piercing through the shadowy mist of time,
The festive Bard of Edward's court recall,
As fancy paints the pomp that once adorn'd thy wall.