SONNET VIII.

Thou lingerest, Spring! still wintry is the scene,
The fields their dead and sapless russet wear,
Scarce does the glossy pile-wort yet appear
Starring the sunny bank, or early green

The elder yet its circling tufts put forth.
The sparrow tenants still the caves-built nest
Where we should see our martins' snowy breast
Oft darting out. The blasts from the bleak north
And from the keener east still frequent blow.
Sweet Spring, thou lingerest! and it should be so-
Late let the fields and gardens blossom out!
Like man when most with smiles thy face is drest,
"Tis to deceive, and he who knows ye best,
When most ye promise, ever most must doubt.

R.

SONNET IX.

Wake the loud harp to rapture! on the gale
O'er Avon's woody steeps that swept along,
Oft has it pour'd the melancholy song

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,
The dirge of Hope departed; sad and slow
No more Despair shall lead where bending o'er
Her tomb despondent Love his head hung low,
And from his brow the blasted myrtle tore.
Wake the loud harp to Rapture ! let it move
Its jocund strings to happiness and love.

(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?
To what sequester'd bower or gloomy dell?
Say dost thou go where sorrow is unknown,
Where trouble never enters dost thou dwell?
Lend me thy wing then, tenant of these shades!
Lend me thy wing, thy gentle aid impart,
For I would fain explore these wizard glades,
And shun the feeblest trace of human art!
Oh kindly guide me to a CAVE OF NIGHT,
So wild, so very secret, so unknown,
That not impervious only to the SIGHT

The CALLOUS MIND its power may also own;
And darken'd Memory, ceasing to inform,
A wretch may shelter from misfortune's storm.

Ah! quiet day, I oft recal the time,
When I did chace my childish sluggishness,

(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.
A. OPIE. 1793.