As in thy favorite flood my limbs I lave. From Ethiopia's lofty mountains roll'd, Where Nile's proud stream through glad-With Egypt's glory is thy glory fled, While high in Leo flames thy radiant sire?

And still resounds on Ganges' faithful shores! For, direr than her desert's burning wind, Gaul's furious legions sweep yon ravag'd

Your tears for my absence soon ceasing to flow," Behold me, thou false one! behold me!" he Some other will court you, and you will bestow

Array'd in her bridal apparel of white,
Appear in the hall with the skeleton knight,
And shriek as he whirls her around.

While they drink out of skulls newly torn
from the grave,

Dancing round them pale spectres are seen: Their liquor is blood, and this horrible stave They howl: "To the health of Alonzo the Brave,

And his consort, the false Imogene."

§ 182. Sonnet. SHAKSPEARE.

WHEN I do count the clock that tells the time,
And see the brave day sunk in hideous night;
When I behold the violet past prime,
And sable curls, all silver'd o'er with white;
When lofty trees I see barren of leaves,
Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,
And summer's green all girded up in sheaves,
Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard;
Then of thy beauty do I question make,
That thou among the wastes of time must go,

Since sweets and beauties do themselves for-
sake,

And die as fast as they see others grow;
And nothing 'gainst Time's sithe can make

defence,

Save breed, to brave him, when he takes thee

hence.

§ 183. Sonnet. SHAKSPEARE.
FULL many a glorious morning have I seen
Flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye,
Kissing with golden face the meadows green,
Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchymy;
Anon permit the basest clouds to ride
With ugly rack on his celestial face,

And from the forlorn world his visage hide,
Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace:
E'en so my sun one early morn did shine,"
With all triumphant splendor on my brow;
But out! alack! he was but one hour mine,
The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now,
Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;
Suns of the world may stain, when heaven's
sun staineth.

184. Sonnet. SHAKSPEARE.

THUS is his cheek the map of days out-worn,
When beauty liv'd and died as flowers do now,
Before these bastard signs of fair were born,
Or durst inhabit on a living brow;
Before the golden tresses of the dead,
The right of sepulchres, were shorn away,
To live a second life on second head,
E'er beauty's dead fleece made another gay;
In him those holy antique hours are seen,
Without all ornament, itself, and true,
Making no summer of another's green,
Robbing no old to dress his beauty new;
And him as for a map doth Nature store,
To shew false Art what beauty was of yore.

185. Sonnet. SHAKSPEARE.
THAT time of year thou may'st in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the
cold,
[sang.
Bare, ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds
In me thou seest the twilight of such day,
As after sun-set fadeth in the west,
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou seest the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire,
Consum'd with that which it was nourish'd by.
This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love
[long.
To love that well which thou must leave ere

more strong,

§ 186. Sonnet. SHAKSPEARE.
FROM you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April, dress'd in all his trim,
Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing;
That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him.
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue,
Could make me any summer's story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where
they grew :
Nor did I wonder at the lilies white,

Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight,
Drawn after you, you, pattern of all those.
Yet seem'd it winter still, and, you away,
As with your shadow I with these did play.

§ 187. Sonnet. DRUMMOND.
SLEEP, Silence' child, sweet father of soft Rest,
Prince, whose approach peace to all mortals

brings,

Indifferent host to shepherds and to kings,
Sole comforter of minds which are oppress'd;
Lo, by thy charming rod all breathing things
Lie slumb'ring, with forgetfulness possess'd;
And yet o'er me to spread thy drowsy wings
Thou spar'st (alas!) who cannot be thy guest.
Since I am thine, O come, but with that face
To inward light which thou art wont to show,
With feigned solace ease a true-felt woe;
Or if, deaf god, thou do deny that grace,
Come as thou wilt, and what thou wilt be-
queath:

I long to kiss the image of my death.

188. Sonnet. DRUMMOND

My lute, be as thou wert when thou didst grow
With thy green mother in some shady grove,
When immelodious winds but made thee move,
And birds their ramage did on thee bestow.
Since that dear voice which did thy sounds
approve,

Which wont in such harmonious strains to flow,
Is reft from earth to tune those spheres above,
What art thou but a harbinger of woe ?

Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more,
But orphans' wailings to the fainting ear;
Each stroke a sigh, each sound draws forth a
tear;

For which be silent as in woods before:
Or, if that any hand to touch thee deign,
Like widow'd turtle still her loss complain.

§ 189. Sonnet. SIDNEY.

BECAUSE I oft, in dark abstracted guise,
Seem most alone in greatest company,
With dearth of words, or answers quite awry,
To them that would make speech of speech
arise,

They deem, and of their doom the rumor flies,
That poison foul of bubbling Pride doth lie
So in my swelling breast, that only I
Fawn on myself, and others do despise.
Yet Pride, I think, doth not my soul possess,
Which looks too oft in his unflattering glass;
But one worse fault, Ambition, I confess,
That makes me oft my best friends overpass,
Unseen, unheard, while Thought to highest
place

Bends all his powers, even unto Stella's grace.

§ 190. Sonnet. SIDNEY.

J

WITH how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies;

1

How silently, and with how wan a face!
What! may it be, that even in heavenly place
That busy Archer his sharp arrows tries ?
Sure, if that long with love acquainted eyes
Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case;
I read it in thy looks; thy languish'd grace,
To me that feel the like, thy state descries,
Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me,
Is constant love deem'd there but want of wit?
Are beauties there as proud as here, they be?
Do they above love to be lov'd, and yet [sess?
Those lovers scorn whom that love doth pos-
Do they call virtue there ungratefulness?

§ 191. Sonnet composed upon Westminster
Bridge, Sept. 3, 1803. WORDSWORTH,
EARTH has not any thing to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty :
This city now doth like a garment wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep,
In his first splendor, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!

§ 192. Sonnet. The World is too much
with us. WORDSWORTH.

THE world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:

Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for every thing, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.-Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan, suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus coming from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

§193. Sonnet. Thought of a Briton on the
Subjugation of Switzerland.
WORDSWORTH.

Two voices are there; one is of the sea,
In both from age to age thou didst rejoice,
One of the mountains; each a mighty voice:
They were thy chosen music, Liberty!
There came a Tyrant, and with holy glee
Thou fought'st against him, but hast vainly
striven;

Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art
driven,

Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee.
Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft :
Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is
left;
[be

For, high-souled Maid, what sorrow would it
That mountain floods should thunder as before,
And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore,
And neither awful voice be heard by thee!

$194. Sonnet. London, 1802. Wordsworth.
MILTON! thou shouldst be living at this hour:
England hath need of thee: she is a fen
Of stagnant waters: altar, sword and pen,
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
Have forfeited their ancient English dower
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men.
Oh! raise us up, return to us again,
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.
Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart :
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the

sea;

Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,
So didst thou travel on life's common way,
In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart
The lowliest duties on herself did lay.

$195 Sonnet. BOWLES
WHOSE was that gentle voice, that, whispering
sweet,

Promis'd, methought, long days of bliss sincere?
Soothing it stole on my deluded ear

Most like soft music that might sometimes cheat
Thoughts dark and drooping. 'Twas the voice

of Hope.

Of love and social scenes it seem'd to speak,
Of truth, of friendship, of affection meek;
That hand in hand along life's downward

slope

Might walk with peace, and cheer the tranquil|
hours:

Ah me! the prospect sadden'd as she sung;
Loud on my startled ear the death-bell rung :
Chill darkness wrapt the pleasurable bowers
She built whilst, pointing to yon breathless
clay,

She cried, "No peace be thine: away, away!"

196. Sonnet. BOWLES.

As o'er these hills I take my silent rounds,
Still on that vision which is flown I dwell!
On images I lov'd, (alas, how well!)
Now past, and but remember'd like sweet sounds
Of yesterday! yet in my breast I keep
Such recollections, painful though they seem;
And hours of joy retrace, till from my dream
I wake, and find them not: then I could weep
To think that time so soon each sweet devours,
To think so soon life's first endearments fail,
And we are duped by Hope's amusive tale;
Who, like a flatterer, when the happiest hours
Are past, and most we wish her cheering lay,
Will fly as faithless and as fleet as they !

§197. Sonnet. At a Convent. BOWLES.
Ir chance some pensive stranger hither led,
His bosom glowing from majestic views,
The gorgeous dome, or the proud landscape-
hues,

Should ask who sleeps beneath this lonely bed,
"Tis poor Matilda! To the cloister'd scene,
A mourner beauteous and unknown, she came,
To shed her tears unmark'd, and quench the
flame

Of ruthless love: yet still her look serene

As the pale moonlight in the midnight aisle.

Her voice was soft, which yet a charm could
lend

Like that which spoke of a departed friend,
And a meek sadness sat upon her smile!-
Be the rude spot by passing pity blest,
Where, hush'd to long repose, the wretched

rest.

§ 198. Sonnet. BOWLES.

O TIME, thou know'st a lenient hand to lay
Softest on sorrow's wounds, and slowly thence
(Lulling to sad repose the weary sense)
The faint pang stealest unperceiv'd away;
On thee I rest my only hope at last,
And think, when thou hast dried the bitter tear
That flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear,
I may look back on ev'ry sorrow past,
And meet life's peaceful evening with a smile-
As some lone bird, at day's departing hour,
Sings in the sunbeam of the transient show'r,
Forgetful though its wings are wet the while;
Yet, ah! how much must that poor heart
endure,

§ 199. Sonnet. BOWLES.

EVENING, as slow thy placid shades descend,
Veiling with gentlest touch the landscape
still,

The lonely battlement, and farthest hill
And wood-I think of those that have no friend;
Who now perhaps by melancholy led,
From the broad blaze of day, where pleasure
flaunts,

Retiring, wander mid thy lonely haunts
Unseen, and mark the tints that o'er thy bed
Hang lovely; oft to musing Fancy's eye
Presenting fairy vales, where the tir'd mind
Might rest, beyond the murmurs of mankind,
Nor hear the hourly moans of misery.
Ah! beauteous views, that Hope's fair gleams
the while

Should smile like you, and perish as they smile!

$200. Sonnet. Dover Cliffs. BOWLES.
ON these white cliffs, that calm above the flood
Uplift their shadowy heads, and at their feet
Scarce hear the surge that has for ages beat,
Sure many a lonely wanderer has stood,
And, while the distant murmur met his ear,
And o'er the distant billows the still eve
Sail'd slow, has thought of all his heart must
leave

To-morrow; of the friends he lov'd most dear;
Of social scenes from which he wept to part.
But if, like me, he knew how fruitless all
The thoughts that would full fain the past
recall,

Soon would he quell the risings of his heart,
And brave the wild winds and unhearing tide,
The world his country, and his God his guide.

$201. Sonnet. On the Rhine. BOWLES.
'Twas morn, and beauteous on the mountain's
brow

(Hung with the blushes of the bending vine)
Stream'd the blue light, when on the spark-
ling Rhine
[prow
We bounded, and the white waves round the
In murmurs parted; varying as we go,
Lo! the woods open, and the rocks retire;
Some convent's ancient walls, or glistening

spire,

[slow. Mid the bright landscape's tract, unfolding Here, dark with furrow'd aspect, like despair, Hangs the bleak cliff; there, on the wood

land's side,

[tide;

The shadowy sunshine pours its streaming
Whilst Hope, enchanted with a scene so fair,
Would wish to linger many a summer's day,
Nor heeds how fast the prospect winds away.

$202. Sonnet. LAMB.

O! I could laugh to hear the midnight wind, That, rushing on its way with careless sweep, And I could weep Scatters the ocean waves. Like to a child. For now, to my raised mind Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a On wings of winds comes wild-eyed Phantasy And her rude visions give severe delight.

cure!