« ПредишнаНапред »
While on the rock I mark the browsing goat,
List to the mountain-turret's distant noise, Or the hoarse bittern's solitary note,
I shall not want the world's delusive joys; But with my little scrip, my book, my lyre,
Shall think my lot completę, nor covet more; And when, with time, shall wane the vital fire,
I'll raise my pillow on the distant shore, And lay me down to rest where the wild wave Shall make sweet music o'er my lonely grave,
III. Supposed to have been addressed by a female lunatic to a lady. LADY, thou weepest for the Maniac's woe,
And thou art fair, and thou, like me, art young; Oh! may thy bosom neyer, never know The pangs with which my
wretched heart is wrung. I had a mother once-a brother too
(Beneath yon yew my father rests his head :) I had a lover once,--and kind, and true,
But mother, brother, lover, all are fled!
Oh! gentle lady--not for me thus weep, *2 :"
And soft and sound will be my peaceful sleep. Go thou and pluck the-roses-while they bloom
My hopes lie buried in the silent tomb. wnies..
* This quatorzain had its rise from an elegant sonnet, Occasioned by seeing a young female lunatic,' written by Mrs. Lofft, and published in the Monthly Mirror.
storm, while on board a ship in his Majesty's service. Lo! o'er the welkin the tempestuous clouds
Successive fly, and the loud-piping wind Rocks the poor sea-boy on the dripping shrouds,
While the pale pilot, o'er the helm reclin'd, Lists to the changeful storm; and as he plies
His wakeful task, he oft bethinks him sad,
Of wife and little home, and chubby lad, And the half-strangled tear bedews his eyes ; 1, on the deck, musing on themes forlorn,
View the drear tempest, and the yawning deep,
Nought dreading in the green sea's caves to sleep,
The wind is bitter keen,--the snow o'erlays
The hidden pits, and dangerous hollow ways, And darkness, will involve thee.-No kind star: To-night will guide thee, Traveller,--and the war
Of winds and elements on thy head will break,
And in thy agonizing ear the shriek Of spirits howling on their stormy car, Will often ring appalling. I portend
A dismal night: and on my wakeful bed
Thoughts, Traveller, of thee will fill my head, And him who rides where winds and wayes contend, And strives, rude cradled on the seas, to guide His lonely bark through the tempestuous tide.
BY CAPEL LOFFT, ESQ.
This sonnet was addressed to the author of this volume, and was
occasioned by several little quatorzains, misnomered sonnets, which he published in the Monthly Mirror. He begs leave to retum his thanks to the much respected writer, for the permission so politely granted to insert it here, and for the good opinion
he has been pleased to express of his productions. Ye, whose aspirings court the muse of lays, • Severest of those orders which belong,
Distinct and separate, to Delphic song,'
Of its full harmony: they fear to wrong
Of that distinguish'd import, lays, though sweet,
O think! to vindicate its genuine praise
RECANTATORY, IN REPLY TO THE FOREGOING
Rides on the raven pennons of the storm,
Or o'er the field, with purple havoc warm, Lashes her steeds, and sings along the fight,
Let her, whom more ferocious strains delight,
Disdain the plaintive Sonnet's little form,
And scorn to its wild cadence to conform The impetuous tenor of her hardy flight. But me, far lowest of the sylvan train,
Who wake the wood-nymphs from the forest shade
With wildest song ;-Me, much behoves thy aid Of mingled melody, to grace my strain, And give it power to please, as soft it flows Through the smooth murmurs of thy frequent close.
ON HEARING THE SOUNDS OF AN XOLIAN HARP. So ravishingly soft upon the tide this end so was
Of the-infuriate gust, it did career,
It might have sooth'd its rugged eharioteer, And sunk him to a zephyr;-then it died, Melting in melody;--and I descried,
Borne to some wizard stream, the form appear
Of druid sage, who on the far-off ear
il By unseen beings sung; or are these sounds Such
as, 'tis said, at night are known to swell By startled shepherd, on the lonely heath Keeping his night-watch, sad portending death?
WHAT art thou, MIGHTY ONé? and where thy seat?
Thou broodest on the calm that cheers the lands,
And thou dost bear within thine awful hands The rolling thunders and the lightuings fleet;
Stern on thy dark-wrought car of cloud and wind
Dost thou repose? or in the solitude
Hears nightly howl the tiger's hungry brood ? Vain thought, the confines of his throne to trace, Who glows through all the fields of boundless space!
Be hush'd, be hush'd, ye bitter winds,
Ye pelting rains a little rest;
That wring with grief my aching breast.
Oh! cruel was my faithless love,
To triumph o’er an artless maid;
To leave the breast by him betrayed.
When exiled from my native home,
He should have wiped the bitter tear;
A heart-sick weary wanderer here.
My child moans sadly in my arms,
The winds they will not let it sleep:
What makes its wretched mother weep.