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.

SONNET VIII.

OPOVERTY! though from thy haggard eye, Thy cheerless mien, of every charm bereft, Thy brow that Hope's last traces long have left, Vain Fortune's feeble sons with terror fly;

I love thy solitary haunts to seek :

:

For Pity, reckless of her own distress;

And Patience, in the pall of wretchedness, That turns to the bleak storm her faded cheek; And Piety, that never told her wrong;

And meek Content, whose griefs no more rebel; And Genius, warbling sweet her saddest song;

And Sorrow, list'ning to a lost friend's knell, Long banish'd from the world's insulting throng;

With thee, and thy unfriended offspring, dwell.

SONNET IX.

AT DOVER CLIFFS.

JULY 20, 1787.

ON these white cliffs, that calm above the flood,
Uplift their shadowing heads, and, at their feet,
Scarce hear the surge that has for ages beat,
Sure many a lonely wand'rer has stood;
And, whilst the lifted murmur met his ear,

And o'er the distant billows the still Eve

Sail'd slow, has thought of all his heart must leave To-morrow; of the friends he lov'd most dear; Of social scenes, from which he wept to part: But if, like me, he knew how fruitless all

The thoughts that would full fain the past recall, Soon would he quell the risings of his heart, And brave the wild winds and unhearing tide

The World his country, and his GoD his guide.