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To bend o'er some enchanted spot; removed
From life's vain coil, I listen to the wind,
And think I hear meek sorrow's plaint, reclined
O'er the forsaken tomb of one she loved!
Fair scenes! ye lend a pleasure, long unknown,
To him who passes weary on his way-
The farewell tear, which now he turns to pay,
Shall thank you ;--and whene'er of pleasures flown
His heart some long-lost image would renew,
Delightful haunts! he will remember you.

SONNET.

TO THE RIVER TWEED.

O TWEED! a stranger, that with wandering feet
O'er hill and dale has journey'd many a mile
(If so his weary thoughts he might beguile,)
Delighted turns thy beauteous scenes to greet.
The waving branches that romantic bend

O'er thy tall banks, a soothing charm bestow;
The murmurs of thy wandering wave below
Seem to his ear the pity of a friend.
Delightful stream! though now along thy shore,
When spring returns in all her wonted pride,
The shepherd's distant pipe is heard no more,
Yet here with pensive peace could I abide,t
Far from the stormy world's tumultuous roar,
To muse upon thy banks at eventide.

SONNET.

EVENING, as slow thy placid shades descend,
Veiling with gentlest hush the landscape still,
The lonely battlement, and farthest hill
And wood, I think of those that have no friend,
Who now, perhaps, by melancholy led,

From the broad blaze of day, where pleasure
flaunts,

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,
And bid farewell to each retiring hill,
Where fond attention seems to linger still,
Tracing the broad bright landscape; much I grieve
That, mingled with the toiling crowd, no more
I may return your varied views to mark,
Of rocks amid the sunshine towering dark,
Of rivers winding wild,* and mountains hoar,
Or castle gleaming on the distant steep!-
For this a look back on thy hills I cast,
And many a soften'd image of the past
Pleased I combine, and bid remembrance keep,
To soothe me with fair views and fancies rude,
When I pursue my path in solitude.

SONNET.

TO THE RIVER ITCHIN, NEAR WINTON.
ITCHIN,† when I behold thy banks again,
Thy crumbling margin, and thy silver breast,
On which the selfsame tints still seem'd to rest,
Why feels my heart the shivering sense of pain?
Is it that many a summer's day has past

Since, in life's morn, I caroll'd on thy side?
Is it that oft, since then, my heart has sigh'd
As youth, and hope's delusive gleams, flew fast?
Is it that those, who circled on thy shore,
Companions of my youth, now meet no more?
Whate'er the cause, upon thy banks I bend,
Sorrowing, yet feel such solace at my heart,
As at the meeting of some long-lost friend,
From whom, in happier hours, we wept to part.‡

SONNET.

O POVERTY! though from thy haggard eye,
Thy cheerless mien, of every charm bereft,
Thy brow that hope's last traces long have left,
Vain fortune's feeble sons with terror fly;

Ah! beauteous views, that hope's fair gleams the I love thy solitary haunts to seek :-
while

Should smile like you, and perish as they smile!

For pity, reckless of her own distress;
And patience, in the pall of wretchedness,
That turns to the bleak storm her faded cheek;

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,
Uplift their shadowing heads, and, at their feet,
Scarce hear the surge that has for ages beat,
Sure many a lonely wanderer has stood;
And, whilst the lifted murmur met his ear,

And o'er the distant billows the still eve
Sail'd slow, has thought of all his heart must

leave

To-morrow; of the friends he loved most dear;
Of social scenes, from which he wept to part:
But if, like me, he knew how fruitless all
The thoughts that would full fain the past

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-
From yonder azure track, emerging white,
The earliest sail slow gains upon the sight,
And the blue wave comes rippling to the shore-
Meantime far off the rear of darkness flies:

Yet 'mid the beauties of the morn, unmoved,
Like one for ever torn from all he loved,
Towards Albion's heights I turn my longing eyes,
Where every pleasure seem'd erewhile to dwell:
Yet boots it not to think, or to complain,
Musing sad ditties to the reckless main :
To dreams like these, adieu! the pealing bell
Speaks of the hour that stays not-and the day
To life's sad turmoil calls my heart away.

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,
And now, along the white and level tide,
They fling their melancholy music wide;
Bidding me many a tender thought recall
Of summer days, and those delightful years
When by my native streams, in life's fair prime
The mournful magic of their mingling chime
First waked my wondering childhood into tears!
But seeming now, when all those days are o'er,
The sounds of joy once heard, and heard no more.

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,
Now pealing loud again, and louder still,
Clear and sonorous, as the gale comes on!
With easy force it opens all the cells
Where memory slept. Wherever I have heard
A kindred melody, the scene recurs,
And with it all its pleasures and its pains.
Such comprehensive views the spirit takes,
That in a few short moments I retrace
(As in a map the voyager his course)
The windings of my way through many years.
Cowper's Task, book vi.

Her voice was soft, which yet a charm could lend,

Like that which spoke of a departed friend
And a meek sadness sat upon her smile!
Now, far removed from every earthly ill,
Her woes are buried, and her heart is still.

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
I journey on, yet pensive turn to view
(Where the rich landscape gleams with softer hue)
The streams, and vales, and hills, that steal away.
So fares it with the children of the earth:

For when life's goodly prospect opens round,
Their spirits beat to tread that fairy ground,
Where every vale sounds to the pipe of mirth.
But them vain hope and easy youth beguiles,

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,
As thee, my country, and the long-lost sight
Of thy own cliffs, that lift their summits white
Above the wave, once more my beating heart
With eager hope and filial transport haiis!

Scenes of my youth, reviving gales ye bring,
As when erewhile the tuneful morn of spring
Joyous awoke amidst your blooming vales,
And fill'd with fragrance every painted plain :
Fled are those hours, and all the joys they gave!
Yet still I gaze, and count each rising wave
That bears me nearer to your haunts again;
If haply, 'mid those woods and vales so fair,
Stranger to peace, I yet may meet her there.

Of solace, that may bear me on serene,
Till eve's last hush shall close the silent scene.

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!
Me thou dost leave to solitude and tears,
To busy fantasies, and boding fears,
Lest ill betide thee: but 'twill not be long,
And the hard season shall be past: till then

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
Erewhile I stray'd, or when the morn began
To tinge the distant turret's gleamy fan,
Or evening glimmer'd o'er the sighing sedge!
And now reposing on thy banks once more,
I bid the pipe farewell, and that sad lay
Whose music on my melancholy way
I woo'd: amid thy waving willows hoar
Seeking a while to rest-till the bright sun

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,
Thou late hast pass'd the happier hours of spring,
With sadness thou wilt mark the fading year;
Chiefly if one, with whom such sweets at morn
Or eve thou'st shared, to distant scenes shall
stray.

O, spring, return! return, auspicious May!
But sad will be thy coming, and forlorn,
If she return not with thy cheering ray,
Who from these shades is gone, gone far away.

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,
Still on that vision which is flown I dwell!
On images I loved (alas, how well!)
Now past, and but remember'd like sweet sounds
Of yesterday! yet in my breast I keep

Such recollections, painful though they seem,
And hours of joy retrace, till from my dream
I wake, and find them not: then I could weep
To think that time so soon each sweet devours;
To think so soon life's first endearments fail,
And we are still misled by hope's smooth tale!
Who, like a flatterer, when the happiest hours
Are past, and most we wish her cheering lay,
Will fly as faithless and as fleet as they!

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
This short-lived scene of vanity and wo;
Whilst on their sad looks smilingly they bear
The trace of creeping age, and the dim hue of
care!

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How shall I meet thee, summer, wont to fill
My heart with gladness, when thy pleasant tide
First came, and on each coomb's romantic side
Was heard the distant cuckoo's hollow bill ?
Fresh flowers shall fringe the wild brink of the
stream,

As with the songs of joyance and of hope
The hedge-rows shall ring loud, and on the slope
The poplars sparkle in the transient beam;
The shrubs and laurels which I loved to tend,

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
Of quiet life, above cold want's hard fate,
(And little wishing more,) nor of the great
Envious, or their proud name! but it pleased God
To take thee to his mercy: thou didst go

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)
The cold dew I shall wipe from my sad brow,
And say, since hopes of bliss on earth are vain,
"Best friend, farewell, till we do meet again?"

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
Of life, and many friends now scatter'd wide
By many fates. Peace be within thy walls!
I have scarce heart to visit thee; but yet,

Denied the joys sought in thy shades,-denied
Each better hope, since my poor
***** died,
What I have owed to thee, my heart can ne'er forget!

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,
and variety of knowledge;
Simple, modest, and retired;

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,
Proud mountain! from thy heights as slow I stray
Down through the distant vale my homeward way,
I shall behold, upon thy rugged breast,
The parting sun sit smiling: me the while
Escaped the crowd, thoughts full of heaviness
May visit, as life's bitter losses press
Hard on my bosom: but I shall "beguile
The thing I am," and think, that e'en as thou
Dost lift in the pale beam thy forehead high,
Proud mountain! (whilst the scatter'd vapours fig
Unheeded round thy breast,) so, with calm brow,
The shades of sorrow I may meet, and wear
The smile unchanged of peace, though prest by care!

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
to act, to speak, and to think,

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!

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