Say, didst thou mark the brilliant poet's death; Or didst thou see a mother's hand Support his languid head: Oh none of these-no friend o'er him Now come around, ye flippant sons of wealth, And when ambition prompts to rise, For me, poor moralizer, I will run, It is the seal of fate: Yet ere bones may lie, Secure from human hate. I go I'll drop one silent tear, Where lies unwept the poet's fallen head: No friend a tear shall shed: SONNETS. SONNET TO THE RIVER TRENT. WRITTEN ON RECOVERY FROM SICKNESS. ONCE more, O Trent! along thy pebbly marge Which fills with joy the throstle's little throat! And all the sounds which on the fresh breeze sail, How wildly novel on his senses float! It was on this that many a sleepless night, As lone he watch'd the taper's sickly gleam, And at his casement heard, with wild affright, The owl's dull wing, and melancholy scream, On this he thought, this, this, his sole desire, Thus once again to hear the warbling woodland choir. SONNET. GIVE me a cottage on some Cambrian wild, Where far from cities I may spend my days; And, by the beauties of the scene beguiled, May pity man's pursuits, and shun his ways. While on the rock I mark the browsing goat, List to the mountain-torrent'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 complete, nor covet more; And when, with time, shall wane the vital fire, I'll raise my pillow on the desert shore, And lay me down to rest where the wild wave SONNET.* SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN ADDRESSED BY A FEMALE LUNATIC TO A LADY. LADY, thou weepest for the Maniac's woe, 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! Yet, whence the tear which dims thy lovely eye? Oh! gentle lady-not for me thus weep, The green sod soon upon my breast will lie, 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. * 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. SONNET SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY THE UNHAPPY POET DERMODY IN A STORM, WHILE ON BOARD A SHIP IN HIS MAJESTY'S SERVICE. Lo! o'er the welkin the tempestuous clouds For not for me shall wife or children mourn, And the wild winds will ring my funeral knell, Sweetly as solemn peal of pious passing-bell. SONNET. THE WINTER TRAVELLER. GOD help thee, Traveller, on thy journey far; 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 wind and waves contend, And strives, rude cradled on the seas, to guide His lonely bark through the tempestuous tide. SONNET. 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 return 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," Why shun the sonnet's undulating maze? And why its name, boast of Petrarchian days, Assume, its rules disown'd? whom from the throng The muse selects, their ear the charm obeys Of its full harmony:-they fear to wrong |