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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.
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,
Thus breathing many a plaint and many a sigh,
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.
may the enthusiast Youth at eve's lone hour,
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
Swells the deep dirge accustom'd to complain
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.
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,