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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.
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 The Sonnet, by adorning with a name
Of that distinguished import, lays, though sweet,
Yet not in magic texture taught to meet Of that so varied and peculiar frame.
O think! to vindicate its genuine praise Those it beseems, whose Lyre a favouring impulse sways.
Recantatory, in reply to the foregoing elegant Admonition.
LET the sublimer muse, who, wrapt in night,
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,
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.
SO ravishingly soft upon the tide
might have sooth'd its rugged charioteer, 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
Lost in some wild enchanted forest's bounds,
By unseen beings sung; or are these sounds,
WHAT art thou, Mighty ONE! and where thy seat?
Thou broodest on the calm that cheers the lands.
And thou dost bear within thine awful hands,
Thou guid'st the northern storm at night's dead noon,
Or on the red wing of the fierce Monsoon,
Dost thou repose? or in the solitude
Hears nightly howl the tiger's hungry brood?
BE hush'd be hush'd, ye bitter winds,
Ye pelting rains a little rest;
T. at wring with grief my aching breast.
Oh, cruel was my faithless love,
To triumph o'er an artless maid: Oh, cruel was my faithless love,
To leave the breast by him betray'd.
When exil'd from my native home,
He should have wip'd the bitter tear: Nor left me faint and lone to roam,
A heart-sick weary wand'rer here.
My child moans sadly in my arms,
The winds they will not let it sleep; Ah, little knows the hapless babe,
What makes its wretched mother weep!
Now lie thee still, my infant dear,
I cannot bear thy sobs to see, Harsh is thy father, little one,
And never will he shelter thee.