SONNET. Thrice happy he, who by some shady grove, But doth converse with that Eternal Love. O how more sweet is birds' harmonious moan, THE RETURN. As, when to one who long hath watch'd, the morn, And, as he climbs, the meadows 'gins adorn; To eyes, like mine, that long have waked to mourn, ON THE SABBATH MORNING. WITH silent awe I hail the sacred morn, The gales, that lately sigh'd along the grove, So smiled the day when the first morn arose ! How sweet thy modest light to view, Fair star! to love and lovers dear; While trembling on the falling dew, Like beauty shining through the tear; Or hanging o'er that mirror-stream To mark each image trembling there, Thou seem'st to smile with softer gleam To see thy lovely face so fair. 1 Though blazing o'er the arch of night, Her rays can never vie with thine. Thine is the breeze that murmuring, bland In love's delicious ecstasy. Fair star! though I be doom'd to prove That rapture's tears are mix'd with pain; Ah! still I feel 'tis sweet to love— But sweeter to be loved again. LEYDEN. SONNET TO A REDBREAST. SWEET bird, that sing'st away the early hours |