SONNET XCVIII.

SINCE my griev'd mind some energy regains,
Industrious habits can, at times, repress
The weight of filial woe, the deep distress
Of life-long separation; yet its pains,

Oft do they throb along these fever'd veins.-
My rest has lost its balm, the fond caress
Wont the dear aged forehead to impress
At midnight, as he slept ;-nor now obtains
My uprising the blest news, that could impart

Joy to the morning, when its dawn had brought
Some health to that weak frame, o'er which my

heart

With fearful fondness yearn'd and anxious thought.-
Time, and the Hope that robs the mortal dart
Of its fell sting, shall cheer me--as they ought.

SONNET XCIX.

ON THE VIOLENT THUNDER STORMS,

DECEMBER 1790.

REMORSELESS Winter! in thy iron reign
Comes the loud whirlwind, on thy pinion borne;
The long, long night,—the tardy, leaden morn ;
The grey frost, riv'ling lane, and hill, and plain;
Chill silent snows, and heavy pattering rain.

These are thy known allies;-and life forlorn,
Yet patient, droops, nor breathes repinings vain;
But now, usurper, thou hast madly torn
From Summer's hand his stores of angry sway;
His rattling thunders with thy winds unite,
On thy pale snows those livid lightnings play,
That pour their deathful splendours o'er his night,
To poise the pleasures of his golden day,

Soft gales, blue skies, and long-protracted light.

SONNET C.

WRITTEN DECEMBER 1790.

LYRE of the Sonnet, that full many a time
Amus'd my lassitude, and sooth'd my pains,
When graver cares forbade the lengthen'd strains,
To thy brief bound, and oft-returning chime
A long farewell!-the splendid forms of rhyme
When grief in lonely orphanism reigns,

Oppress the drooping soul.-Death's dark domains Throw mournful shadows o'er the Æonian clime; For in their silent bourne my filial bands

Lie all dissolv'd;-and swiftly-wasting pour From my frail glass of life, health's sparkling sands. Sleep then, my Lyre, thy tuneful tasks are o'er; Sleep! for my heart bereav'd, and listless hands, Wake with rapt touch thy glowing strings no more!

PARAPHRASES AND IMITATIONS

OF

HORACE.

TRANSLATIONS Scrupulously faithful are apt to be stiff, vapid, and obscure, from the often irreconcileably different nature of languages, from local customs, and from allusions to circumstances over which time has drawn a veil. In attempting to put the most admired and interesting of Horace's Odes into English verse, I have taken only the poet's general idea, frequently expanding it, to elucidate the sense, and to bring the images more distinctly to the eye; induced by the hope of thus infusing into these Paraphrases the spirit of original composition. Neither have I scrupled to follow the example of Dryden and Pope, by sometimes adding ideas and imagery congenial to the subject, and thus to translate Horace like a poet, rather than a versifier.

The trust, whether partial or not, that it was in my power so to paraphrase the Odes of Horace, prompted the late Mr Grove of Lichfield, and the late Mr Dewes of Wellsburn in Warwickshire, to request that I would undertake the task Not acrespecting those whose subjects best pleased me. quainted with each other, the coincidence of their opinion and request was flattering. They were extensively known to be gentlemen of distinguished virtues, much classic erudition, and poetic taste.