To bend o'er some enchanted spot; removed SONNET. TO THE RIVER TWEED. O TWEED! a stranger, that with wandering feet O'er thy tall banks, a soothing charm bestow; SONNET. EVENING, as slow thy placid shades descend, From the broad blaze of day, where pleasure Retiring, wander 'mid thy lonely haunts Unseen; and watch the tints that o'er thy bed Hang lovely, to their pensive fancy's eye Presenting fairy vales, where the tired mind Might rest, beyond the murmurs of mankind, Nor hear the hourly moans of misery! SONNET. ON LEAVING A VILLAGE IN SCOTLAND. CLYSDALE, as thy romantic vales I leave, SONNET. TO THE RIVER ITCHIN, NEAR WINTON. Since, in life's morn, I caroll'd on thy side? SONNET. O POVERTY! though from thy haggard eye, Ah! beauteous views, that hope's fair gleams the I love thy solitary haunts to seek :- Should smile like you, and perish as they smile! For pity, reckless of her own distress; river is thus beautifully characterized by Akenside, who And piety, that never told her wrong; was born near it: "O ye Northumbrian shades, which overlook The rocky pavement, and the mossy falls Of solitary Wensbeck's limpid stream! How gladly I recall your well known seats Beloved of old, and that delightful time When all alone, for many a summer's day, I wander'd through your calm recesses, led In silence by some powerful hand unseen." Written on passing the Tweed at Kelso, where the scenery is much more picturesque than it is near Berwick, the more general route of travellers into Scotland. It was a beautiful and still autumnal eve when we passed. Alluding to the simple and affecting pastoral strains for which Scotland has een so long celebrated. I need not mention Lochaber, the braes of Ballendine, Tweedside etc. And meek content, whose griefs no more rebel; And genius, warbling sweet her saddest song; And sorrow, listening to a lost friend's knell, Long banish'd from the world's insulting throng; With thee, and thy unfriended offspring, dwell. There is a wildness almost fantastic in the view of the river from Stirling Castle, the course of which is see for many miles, making a thousand turnings. The Itchin is a river running from Winchester to Southampton, the banks of which have been the scene of many a holiday sport. The lines were composed on an evening in a journey from Oxford to Southampton, the first time I had seen the Itchin since I left school. We remember them as friends from whom we were sorry ever to have parted.-Smith's Theory. SONNET. AT DOVER CLIFFS, JULY 20, 1787. On these white cliffs, that, calm above the flood, And o'er the distant billows the still eve leave To-morrow; of the friends he loved most dear; recall, Soon would he quell the risings of his heart, And brave the wild winds and unhearing tideThe world his country, and his God his guide. SONNET. AT OSTEND, LANDING, JULY 21, 1787. THE orient beam illumes the parting oar- Yet 'mid the beauties of the morn, unmoved, SONNET. AT OSTEND, JULY 22, 1787. How sweet the tuneful bells' responsive peal !* As when, at opening morn, the fragrant breeze Breathes on the trembling sense of wan disease, So piercing to my heart their force I feel! And hark! with lessening cadence now they fall, SONNET. ON THE RIVER RHINE. 'Twas morn, and beauteous on the mountain's brow (Hung with the beamy clusters of the vine) Stream'd the blue light, when on the sparkling Rhine We bounded, and the white waves round the prow In murmurs parted ;-varying as we go, Lo! the woods open, and the rocks retire, Some convent's ancient walls or glistening spire 'Mid the bright landscape's track unfolding slow. Here dark, with furrow'd aspect, like despair, Frowns the bleak cliff-there on the woodland's side The shadowy sunshine pours its streaming tide; Whilst hope, enchanted with the scene so fair, Would wish to linger many a summer's day, Nor heeds how fast the prospect winds away. SONNET. AT A CONVENT. Ir chance some pensive stranger, hither led, (His bosom glowing from majestic views, The gorgeous dome, or the proud landscape' hues,) Should ask who sleeps beneath this lowly bed'Tis poor Matilda!-To the cloister'd scene, A mourner, beauteous and unknown, she came, To shed her tears unmark'd, and quench the flame Of fruitless love: yet was her look serene *Written on landing at Ostend, and hearing, very eariy As the pale moonlight in the midnight aisle; in the morning, the carillons. The effect of bells has been often described, but by none more beautifully than Cowper: How soft the music of those village bells, Falling at intervals upon the ear In cadence sweet, now dying all away, Her voice was soft, which yet a charm could lend, Like that which spoke of a departed friend SONNET. TIME! who know'st a lenient hand to lay Softest on sorrow's wound, and slowly thence (Lulling to sad repose the weary sense) The faint pang stealest unperceived away; On thee I rest my only hope at last, And think, when thou hast dried the bitter tear That flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear, I may look back on every sorrow past, And meet life's peaceful evening with a smileAs some lone bird, at day's departing hour, Sings in the sunbeam, of the transient shower Forgetful, though its wings are wet the while:Yet ah! how much must that poor heart endure, Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure! SONNET. LANGUID, and sad, and slow, from day to day For when life's goodly prospect opens round, And soon a longing look, like me, they cast Back on the pleasing prospect of the past: Yet fancy points where still far onward smiles Some sunny spot, and her fair colouring blends, Till cheerless on their path the night descends. SONNET. ON A DISTANT VIEW OF ENGLAND. AH! from mine eyes the tears unbidden start, Scenes of my youth, reviving gales ye bring, Of solace, that may bear me on serene, PART II. SONNET. As one who, long by wasting sickness worn, Weary has watch'd the lingering night, and heard Heartless the carol of the matin bird Salute his lonely porch, now first at morn Goes forth, leaving his melancholy bed; He the green slope and level meadow views, Delightful bathed with slow-ascending dews; Or marks the clouds, that o'er the mountain's head In varying forms fantastic wander white; Or turns his ear to every random song, Heard the green river's winding marge along, The whilst each sense is steep'd in still delight. With such delight, o'er all my heart I feel, Sweet hope! thy fragrance pure and healing incense steal! SONNET. <CTOBER, 1792. Go then, and join the roaring city's throng! Live happy; sometimes the forsaken shade Remembering, and these trees now left to fade Nor 'mid the busy scenes and "hum of men," Wilt thou my cares forget: in heaviness To me the hours shall roll, weary and slow, Till, mournful autumn past, and all the snow Of winter pale! the glad hour I shall bless, That shall restore thee from the crowd again, To the green hamlet in the peaceful plain. SONNET. TO THE RIVER CHERWELL, Oxford. CHERWELL! how pleased along thy willow'd hedge Of joy return, as when heaven's beauteous bow Beams on the night-storm's passing wings below: Whate'er betide, yet something have I won SONNET. NOVEMBER, 1792. THERE is strange music in the stirring wind, When lowers the autumnal eve, and all alone To the dark wood's cold covert thou art gone, Whose ancient trees on the rough slope reclined Rock, and at times scatter their tresses sear. If in such shades, beneath their murmuring, O, spring, return! return, auspicious May! SONNET. APRIL, 1793. WHOSE was that gentle voice, that whispering sweet, Promised methought long days of bliss sincere ? Soothing it stole on my deluded ear, Most like soft music, that might sometimes cheat Thoughts dark and drooping! 'Twas the voice of hope. Of love, and social scenes, it seem'd to speak, Of truth, of friendship, of affection meek; That, O! poor friend, might to life's downward slope Lead us in peace, and bless our latest hours. Ah me! the prospect sadden'd as she sung; Loud on my startled ear the death-bell rung; Chill darkness wrapt the pleasurable bowers, Whilst horror, pointing to yon breathless clay, No peace be thine," exclaim'd; "away, away!" SONNET. MAY, 1793. As o'er these hills I take my silent rounds, Such recollections, painful though they seem, SONNET. NETLEY ABBEY. FALL'N pile! I ask not what has been thy fate; But when the weak winds, wafted from the main, Through each rent 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 full proudly in their prime And beauteous might have stood, till bow'd by time Or injury, their early boast forgot, They may have fall'n like thee: Pale and forlorn, Their brow, besprent with thin hairs, white as snow, They lift, majestic yet; as they would scorn How shall I meet thee, summer, wont to fill As with the songs of joyance and of hope Thinking their May-tide fragrance might delight, With many a peaceful charm, thee, my best friend, Shall put forth their green shoot, and cheer the sight! But I shall mark their hues with sickening eyes, And weep for her who in the cold grave lies! SONNET. How blest with thee the path could I have trod In youth and beauty, go to thy death-bed; E'en whilst on dreams of bliss we fondly fed, Of years to come of comfort!-Be it so. Ere this I have felt sorrow; and e'en now (Though sometimes the unbidden thought must start, And half unman the miserable heart) SONNET. 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 Denied the joys sought in thy shades,-denied Didst soothe me, bidding my poor heart rejoice, Though smitten sore: O, I did little think That thou, my friend, wouldst the first victim fall To the stern king of terrors! thou didst fly, By pity prompted, at the poor man's cry; And soon thyself wert stretch'd beneath the pall, Livid infection's prey. The deep distress Of her, who best thy inmost bosom knew, To whom thy faith was vow'd, thy soul was true, What powers of faltering language shall express As friendship bids, I feebly breathe my own, And sorrowing say, "Pure spirit, thou art gone!" SONNET. ON THE DEATH OF THE REV. WILLIAM BENWELL." THOU Camest with kind looks, when on the brink Almost of death I strove, and with mild voice The following elegant inscription to the memory of this amiable and excellent young man is prefixed to the chancel of Caversham church, near Reading, and does merely justice to the many valuable qualifications of him whose virtues and graces it records : Near this Chancel are deposited The Remains of the REV. WILLIAM BENWELL, Late Fellow of Trinity College, Oxford, Who died of a contagious fever, the consequence of his charitable endeavours to relieve and comfort the inhabitants of the village in which he resided. From early youth He was remarkable for correctness of taste, In manners and conversation he possessed a natural grace; a winning courtesy, truly expressive of the heavenly serenity of his mind, and of the meekness, lowliness and benevolence of his heart. To his Relations, and to his Companions whom he loved, he was most tenderly and consistently affectionate: SONNET. WRITTEN AT MALVERN, JULY 11, 1793. I SHALL behold far off thy towering crest, SONNET. ON REVIEWING THE FOREGOING. SEPT. 21, 1797. To the poor a zealous friend, a wise and patient instructer; I TURN these leaves with thronging thoughts, and By his mildness cheering the sorrowful; And, by the pure and amiable sanctity which beamed in his countenance, repressing the licentious. Habitually pious, He appeared in every instance of life as in the sight of God. He died Sept. 6th, 96, in his 32d year: His soul pleased the LORD, therefore hasted He to take him away. This Tablet was erected to his Memory, with heartfelt grief, and the tenderest affection, By PENELOPE, eldest daughter of JOHN LOVEDAY, Esq.; and PENELOPE his wife, Why, after many years of the most ardent friendship, became his wife and his widow in the course of eleven weeks!" say, "Alas! how many friends of youth are dead, How many visions of fair hope have fled, Since first, my muse, we met:"-So speeds away Life, and its shadows; yet we sit and sing, Stretch'd in the noontide bower, as if the day Declined not, and we yet might trill our lay Beneath the pleasant morning's purple wing That fans us, while aloft the gay clouds shine! O, ere the coming of the long cold night, RELIGION, may we bless thy purer light, That still shall warm us, when the tints decline O'er earth's dim hemisphere, and sad we gaze On the vain visions of our passing days! |