SONNET XIII.

Why will

you break upon my sorrows? why Disturb the silent anguish of my soul?

Oh I am drunk with Sorrow's bitter bowl,. And clad in woe the spectre Memory

Haunts me; and Hope that rais'd her beauteous brow

Erewhile in sorrow smiling, as the flower

Blooms thro' the dew, now droops. The gloomy hour
Is come of black Despair. O leave me now
To woo the charm of Silence, and to try

Awhile to calm the troubled waves of woe.
Meek silent Sorrow hates the pageant show
The pomp of Pride and rout of Revelry.
Go thou gay Youth and Health's rich harvest reap,
Plunge thou in pleasure, but leave me to weep.

S. F.

SONNET XIV.

How soothing sweet methinks it is to walk
By moonlight, when the still delicious calm
Sheds o'er the love-lorn soul a grateful balm,
And woos the woe to peace! O then I talk,
Rapt in myself as slow I pace along,

Of hopeless Love, and weep upon my wounds,
Soft as the hollow gale's expiring sounds,
Soft as the veiled virgin's evening song,
Soft as mild Melancholy's noiseless tread.
Thus breathing many a plaint and many a sigh,
I gaze the moon with fondly-fixed eye
Musing on many a lovely vision fled
Hopeless and sad, till down I sink to rest,
By sorrow, silence, solitude, opprest,

S.. F.

SONNET XV.

That gooseberry-bush attracts my wandering eyes,
Whose vivid leaves so beautifully green
First opening in the early spring are seen;
I sit and gaze, and cheerful thoughts arise
Of that delightful season drawing near

When those grey woods shall don their summer dress
And ring with warbled love and happiness.

I sit and think that soon the advancing year

With golden flowers shall star the verdant vale.

Then may the enthusiast Youth at eve's lone hour,

Led by mild Melancholy's placid power,

Go listen to the soothing nightingale

And feed on meditation; while that I

Remain at home and feed on gooseberry-pye.

K

SONNET XVI.

STONEHENGE,

By the late ROBERT LOVE L L.

Was it a Spirit on yon shapeless pile?
It wore methought an hoary Druid's form,
Musing on ancient days! the dying storm
Moan'd in his lifted locks; thou Night! the while
Dost listen to his sad harp's wild complaint,
Mother of Shadows! as to thee he pours
The broken strain, and plaintively deplores
The fall of Druid Fame! Hark! murmurs faint
Breathe on the wavy Air! and now more loud
Swells the deep dirge accustom'd to complain
Of holy rites unpaid, and of the crowd

Whose careless steps these sacred haunts profane. O'er the wild plain the hurrying tempest flies,

And 'mid the storm unheard, the song of Sorrow dies.

SONNET XVII.

By the late ROBERT LOVELL.

The cloudy blackness gathers o'er the sky
Shadowing these realms with that portentous storm
Ere long to burst and haply to deform

Fair Nature's face for Indignation high

:

Might hurl promiscuous vengeance with wild hand And Fear, with fierce precipitation throw

Blind ruin wide: while Hate with scowling brow Feigns patriot rage. O PRIESTLEY, for thy wand, Or FRANKLIN ! thine, with calm expectant joy To tame the storm and with mysterious force In viewless channel shape the lightning's course To purify Creation, not destroy.

So should fair order from the Tempest rise

And Freedom's sun-beams gild unclouded skies.