SONNET VIII. Thou lingerest, Spring! still wintry is the scene, The elder yet its circling tufts put forth. R. SONNET IX. Wake the loud harp to rapture! on the gale Of memory; often in the primros'd vale, Where Cherwell winds her willowy meads among, Echoed to Sorrow's solitary tale; Now let it speak of Joy! for now no more It hymns responsive to the hand of woe, (Written in a Boat, on Loch Lomond, on seeing one dart into a Copse, on one side of the Islands of the Lake.) Whither lone wanderer-whither art thou flown? The CALLOUS MIND its power may also own; Ah! quiet day, I oft recal the time, (The rear of darkness ling'ring still") to dress In due sort for thy coming: the first chime Of blithesome bells, that usher'd in the morn, Carol'd to me of rest and simplest mirth : 'Twas then all happiness on the wide earth To gaze! I little dreamt, that man was born For ought but wholesome toil and holiest praise Thanking that God who made him to rejoice! But I am changed now! nor could I raise My sunken spirit at thy well-known voice; But that thou seemest soothingly to say, "Look up poor mourner, to a BETTER DAY." SONNET XII. ON THE APPROACH OF AUTUMN. Farewell! gay Summer! now the changing wind That Autumn brings, commands thee to retreat, It fades the roses which thy temples bind And the green sandals which adorn thy feet. Now flies with thee the walk at eventide That fav'ring hour to bright-ey'd Fancy dear, When most she loves to seek the mountain side And mark the pomp of twilight hast'ning near. Ah then, what faery forms around her throng! On every cloud a magic charm she sees : Sweet Evening these delights to thee belong, But now alas! comes Autumn's chilling breeze And early night attendant on its sway Bears in her envious veil, sweet fancy's hour away. |