SONNET. Thrice happy he, who by some shady grove, But doth converse with that Eternal Love. O how more sweet is birds' harmonious moan, Or the hoarse sobbings of the widow'd dove, 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, A soothing calm on every breeze is borne ; The gales, that lately sigh'd along the grove, JOHN LEYDEN. ODE TO THE EVENING STAR. 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 scem'st to smile with softer gleam To see thy lovely face so fair. Though blazing o'er the arch of night, 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 |