Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers! To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers Sweet artless songster, thou my mind dost raise To airs of spheres, yes, and to angels' lays. WILLIAM DRUMMOND. SONNET. WITH how sad steps, O moon, thou climb'st the skies! How silently, and with how wan a face! Then, ev'n of fellowship, O moon, tell me, Those lovers scorn, whom that love doth possess? SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. ODES AND SONNETS. SONNET. As I have seen the lady of the May Built by the May-pole, where the jocund swains A handkerchief cast o'er and o'er again; And none returneth empty that have spent SONNET WRITTEN AT THE CLOSE OF SPRING. THE garlands fade that Spring so lately wove, Each simple flower, which she had nursed in dew, Anemones, that spangled every grove, The primrose wan, and harebell mildly blue. Till Spring again shall call forth every bell, Ah, poor humanity! so frail, so fair, Are the fond visions of thy early day, Till tyrant passion, and corrosive care, Another May new buds and flowers shall bring; CHARLOTTE SMITH. EVENING ODE. TO STELLA. EVENING now from purple wings Brilliant drops bedeck the mead, |