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.

ز

K

SONNET XVI.

STONEHENGE

By the late ROBERT LOVELL.

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 complaints
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 thésé 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 LOVEL L.

The cloudy blackness gathers o'er the sky

Shadowing these realms with that portentous storm

Ere long to burst and baply 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,