SONNET V. EVENING, as slow thy placid shades descend, And wood, I think of those that have no friend, 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 Might rest, beyond the murmurs of mankind, 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, I may return your vary'd views to mark, Of rocks amid the sunshine tow'ring dark, Of rivers winding wild, and mountains hoar, For this a look back on thy hills I cast, SONNET VII. TO THE RIVER ITCHIN, NEAR WINTON. ITCHIN, when I behold thy banks again, 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, 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. |