SONNET III.

TO THE

RIVER WENSBECK.

WHILE slowly wanders thy sequester'd stream,
WENSBECK! the mossy-scatter'd rocks among,
In fancy's ear still making plaintive song
To the dark woods above, that waving seem
To bend o'er some enchanted spot; remov'd
From life's vain coil, I listen to the wind,
And think I hear meek sorrow's plaint, reclin'd

O'er the forsaken tomb of one she lov'd!-
Fair scenes, ye lend a pleasure, long unknown,

To him who passes weary on his way

The farewell tear, which now he turns to pay, Shall thank you;—and whene'er of pleasures flown His heart some long-lost image would renew, Delightful haunts! he will remember you.

L

SONNET IV.

TO THE

RIVER TWEED.

●TWEED; a stranger, that with wandering feet O'er hill and dale has journey'd many a mile, (If so his weary thoughts he might beguile) Delighted turns thy beauteous scenes to greet. The waving branches that romantick bend

O'er thy tall banks, a soothing charm bestow; The murmurs of thy wand'ring wave below Seem to his ear the pity of a friend. Delightful stream! though now along thy shore, When spring returns in all her wonted pride, The shepherd's distant pipe is heard no more, Yet here with pensive peace could I abide, Far from the stormy world's tumultuous roar, To muse upon thy banks at eventide.

SONNET V.

EVENING, as slow thy placid shades descend,
Veiling with gentlest hush the landscape still,
The lonely battlement, and farthest hill

And wood, I think of those that have no friend,
Who now, perhaps, by melancholy led,

From the broad blaze of day, where pleasure flaunts,

Retiring, wander 'mid thy lonely haunts

Unseen; and watch the tints that o'er thy bed
Hang lovely, to their pensive fancy's eye
Presenting fairy vales, where the tir'd mind

Might rest, beyond the murmurs of mankind,
Nor hear the hourly moans of misery!

Ah! beauteous views, that Hope's fair gleams the while

Should smile like you, and perish as they smile!

SONNET VI.

ON LEAVING

A VILLAGE IN SCOTLAND.

CLYSDALE, as thy romantick vales I leave,
And bid farewell to each retiring hill,
Where fond attention seems to linger still,
Tracing the broad bright landscape; much I grieve
That, mingled with the toiling crowd, no more
I may return your vary'd views to mark,
Of rocks amid the sunshine tow'ring dark,
Of rivers winding wild, and mountains hoar,
Or castle gleaming on the distant steep!-
For this a look back on thy hills I cast,
And many a soften'd image of the past
Pleas'd I combine, and bid remembrance keep,
To sooth me with fair views and fancies rude,
When I pursue my path in solitude.

SONNET VII.

TO THE

RIVER ITCHIN, NEAR WINTON.

ITCHIN, when I behold thy banks again,
Thy crumbling margin, and thy silver breast,
On which the self-same tints still seem'd to rest,
Why feels my heart the shiv'ring sense of pain?
Is it that many a summer's day has past

Since, in life's morn, I caroll'd on thy side?

Is it that oft, since then, my heart has sigh'd, As Youth, and Hope's delusive gleams, flew fast? Is it that those, who circled on thy shore, Companions of my youth, now meet no more? Whate'er the cause, upon thy banks I bend, Sorrowing, yet feel such solace at my heart, As at the meeting of some long-lost friend,

From whom, in happier hours, we wept to part.