SONNET V. THE WINTER TRAVELLER. GOD help thee, Traveller, on thy journey far; A dismal night-and on my wakeful bed SONNET VI. 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 permis sion so politely granted, to insert it here, and for the good opi- ' nion he has been pleased to express of his productions. YE, whose aspirings court the muse of lays, Of its full harmony:-they fear to wrong The Sonnet, by adorning with a name Of that distinguished import, lays, though sweet, Of that so varied and peculiar frame. Those it beseems, whose Lyre a favouring impulse sways. SONNET VII. 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, 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 SONNET VIII. On hearing the Sounds of an Æolian Harp. SO ravishingly soft upon the tide Of the enfuriate gust, it did career, It 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 SONNET IX. WHAT art thou, MIGHTY ONE! and where thy seat? The rolling thunders and the lightnings fleet. In the drear silence of the polar span Dost thou repose? or in the solitude Of sultry tracts, where the lone caravan Hears nightly howl the tiger's hungry brood? A BALLAD. BE hush'd, be hush'd, ye bitter winds, Lie still, lie still, ye busy thoughts, 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, Ab, 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. |