SONNET.

Thrice happy he, who by some shady grove,
Far from the clamorous world, doth live his own;
Though solitary, who is not alone,

But doth converse with that Eternal Love.

O how more sweet is birds' harmonious moan,
Or the hoarse sobbings of the widow'd dove,
Than those smooth whisperings neer a prince's throne,
Which good make doubtful, do the evil approve!
O how more sweet is Zephyr's wholesome breath,
And sighs embalm'd, which new-born flowers unfold,
Than that applause vain honour doth bequeath!
How sweet are streams to poison drunk in gold!
The world is full of horrors, troubles, slights;
Woods' harmless shades have only true delights.
DRUMMOND.

THE RETURN.

As, when to one who long hath watch'd, the morn,
Advancing slow, forewarns the approach of day
(What time the young and flowery-kirtled May
Decks the green hedge and dewy grass unshorn
With cowslips pale, and many a whitening thorn),

And, as he climbs, the meadows 'gins adorn;
The rivers glisten to the dancing beam,
Th' awaken'd birds begin their amorous strain,
And hill and vale with joy and fragrance teem.
Such is the sight of thee; thy wish'd return

To eyes, like mine, that long have waked to mourn,
That long have watch'd for light, and wept in vain.
BAMPFYLDE.

ON THE SABBATH MORNING.

WITH silent awe I hail the sacred morn,
That slowly wakes while all the fields are still!
A soothing calm on every breeze is borne;
A graver murmur gurgles from the rill;
And Echo answers softer from the hill;
And softer sings the linnet from the thorn;
The sky-lark warbles in a tone less shrill.
Hail, light serene! hail, sacred Sabbath-morn!
The rooks float silent by in airy drove;
The sun a placid yellow lustre throws;

The gales, that lately sigh'd along the grove,
Have hush'd their downy wings in dead repose;
The hovering rack of clouds forgets to move;

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.

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Though blazing o'er the arch of night,
The moon thy timid beams outshine,
As far as thine each starry night—

Her rays can never vie with thine.
Thine are the soft enchanting hours,
When twilight lingers on the plain,
And whispers to the closing flow'rs
That soon the sun will rise again.

Thine is the breeze that murmuring, bland
As music, wafts the lover's sigh,
And bids the yielding heart expand

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
Of winters past or coming, void of care,
Well-pleased with delights which present are,