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SONNET.

AMONGST the many buds proclaiming May,
(Decking the fields in holy-day's array,
Striving who shall surpass in bravery,)
Mark the fair blooming of the hawthorn-tree;
Who, finely clothed in a robe of white,
Feeds full the wanton eye with May's delight.
Yet, for the bravery that she is in,

Doth neither handle card nor wheel to spin,

Nor changeth robes but twice, is never seen

In other colours than in white or green.

Learn then content, young shepherd, from this tree,
Whose greatest wealth is Nature's livery;

And richest ingots never toil to find,

Nor care for poverty, but of the mind.

BROWNE.

SONNET.

How sweet it is, when mother Fancy rocks

The wayward brain, to saunter through a wood!

An old place, full of many a lovely brood,

Tall trees, green arbours, and ground flowers in flocks;

And wild rose tip-toe upon hawthorn stocks,

Like to a bonnie lass, who plays her pranks

At wakes and fairs with wandering mountebanks,

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When she stands cresting the clown's head, and mocks

The crowd beneath her. Verily I think,

Such place to me is sometimes like a dream.
Or map of the old world: thoughts, link by link,
Enter through ears and eyesight, with such gleam
Of all things, that at last in fear I shrink,
And leap at once from the delicious stream.

WORDSWORTH.

SONNET.

THINE eyes' blue tenderness, thy long fair hair,
And the wan lustre of thy features-caught
From contemplation-were serenely wrought,
Seems Sorrow's softness charm'd from its despair-
Have thrown such speaking sadness in thine air,
That-but I know thy blessed bosom fraught
With mines of unalloy'd and stainless thought-
I should have deem'd thee doom'd to earthly care.
With such an aspect, by his colours blent,

When from his beauty-breathing pencil born, (Except that thou hast nothing to repent)

The Magdalen of Guido saw the morn

Such seem'st thou-but how much more excellent! With nought Remorse can claim-nor Virtue scorn.

BYRON.

SONNET.

Thy check is pale with thought, but not from woe,
And yet so lovely, that if Mirth could flush
Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush,
My heart would wish away that ruder glow :
And dazzle not thy deep-blue eyes-but, oh!

While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush,
And into mine my mother's weakness rush,
Soft as the last drops round heaven's airy bow.
For, through thy long dark lashes low depending,
The soul of melancholy Gentleness

Gleams like a seraph from the sky descending,
Above all pain, yet pitying all distress ;
At once such majesty with sweetness blending,
I worship more, but cannot love thee less.

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SONNET.

THE rolling wheel that runneth often round,
The hardest steel in tract of time doth tear;
And drizzling drops, that often do redound,
The firmest flint doth in continuance wear:
Yet cannot I, with many a dropping tear
And long entreaty, soften her hard heart,
That she will once vouchsafe my plaint to hear,
Or look with pity on my painful smart.
But, when I plead, she bids me play my part;
And, when I weep, she says, Tears are but water;
And, when I sigh, she says, I know the art;
And, when I wail, she turns herself to laughter.
So do I weep, and wail, and plead in vain,
Whiles she as steel and flint doth still remain.

EDMUND SPENSER.

SONNET.

THE WINTER TRAVELLER.

GOD help thee, Traveller, on thy journey far;
The wind is bitter keen,-the snow o'erlays
The hidden pits, and dangerous hollow ways,
And darkness will involve thee.-No kind star
To-night will guide thee, Traveller, and the war

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