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SONNETS.

TO CAPEL LOFFT, ESQ.

LOFFT, unto thee, one tributary song,

The simple Muse, admiring, fain would bring; She longs to lisp thee to the listening throng,

And with thy name to bid the woodlands ring. Fain would she blazon all thy virtues forth,

Thy warm philanthropy, thy justice mild, Would say how thou didst foster kindred worth,

And to thy bosom snatch'd misfortune's child: Firm she would paint thee, with becoming zeal,

Upright, and learned, as the Pylian sire,

Would say how sweetly thou could'st sweep the lyre, And shew thy labours for the public weal,

Ten thousand virtues tell with joys supreme,
But ah! she shrinks abash'd before the arduous theme.

TO THE MOON.

WRITTEN IN NOVEMBER.

SUBLIME, emerging from the misty verge

Of the horizon dim, thee, Moon, I hail,

As sweeping o'er the leafless grove, the gale Seems to repeat the year's funereal dirge. Now Autumn sickens on the languid sight,

And falling leaves bestrew the wanderer's way, Now unto thee, pale arbitress of night,

With double joy my homage do I pay.

When clouds disguise the glories of the day, And stern November sheds her boisterous blight,

How doubly sweet to mark the moony ray Shoot through the mist from the etherial height, And, still unchang'd, back to the memory bring

The smiles Favonian of life's earliest spring.

WRITTEN AT THE GRAVE OF A FRIEND.

FAST from the West the fading day-streaks fly,

And ebon night assumes her solemn sway; Yet here alone, unheeding time, I lie,

And o'er my friend still pour the plaintive lay. Oh! 'tis not long since, George, with thee I woo'd,

The maid of musings by yon moaning wave; And bail'd the moon's mild beam, which now renew'd

Seems sweetly sleeping on thy silent grave! The busy world pursues its boisterous way,

The noise of revelry still echoes round; Yet I am sad while all beside is gay;

Yet still I weep o'er thy deserted mound. Oh! that like thee I might bid sorrow cease, And 'neath the green-sward sleep-the sleep of peace.

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MISFORTUNE, I am young,-my chin is bare,

And I have wonder'd much when men have told, How youth was free from sorrow and from care,

That thou should'st dwell with me, and leave the old. Sure dost not like me!-Shrivelld hag of hate,

My phiz, and thanks to thee, is sadly long;

I am not either, Beldame, over strong; Nor do I wish at all to be thy mate, For thou, sweet Fury, art my utter hate. Nay, shake not thus thy miserable pate; I am yet young and do not like thy face; And lest thou should'st resume the wild-goose chace, I'll tell thee something all thy heat to assuage,

- Thou wilt not hit my fancy in my age.

AS thus oppress’d with many a heavy care,

(Though young yet sorrowful,) I turn my feet

To the dark woodland,- longing much to greet The form of peace, if chance she sojourn there; Deep thought and dismal, verging to despair,

Fills my sad breast;--and tir'd with this vain coil,

I shrink dismay'd before life's upland toil. And as amid the leaves the evening air, Whispers still melody,- I think ere long,

When I no more can hear, these woods will speak;

And then a sad smile plays upon my cheek,
And mournful phantasies upon me throng,
And I do ponder with most strange delight,
On the calm slumbers of the dead-man's night.

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