DEDICATORY SONNET.

TO SOPHIA.

LET it be never said, that I can bring
A tuneful trophy, and disloyally
To any one present it but to thee

Who doth inspire me each time that I sing!
Thou art my muse! Nay more, as with a wing
Near me thou hoverest of tranquility,

Making home, home! All that works silently
In me of human comfort, so that spring

(If chance they spring) flowers round my humble path,

All from thee comes! When thou wert far away, The lays I breath'd all told of grief and scath;

They were but shadows of a better day.—
Me thou refreshest as the earth spring-showers;
Due is the wreath to Her who rais'd its flowers!

DEDICATORY LINES

TO THE

"DESULTORY THOUGHTS IN LONDON."

ADDRESSED TO MRS. HARDING.

Written September, 1820.

1.

To whom, more suitably, can I present

Effusions, London, penn'd in thy deep haunt, Than to a friend there, the sole friend fate lent, Who caus'd that, homeless, home's peculiar want I should not feel-not so-that it should daunt

With sense of loneliness my pining spirit,

That I no more should have the will to chaunt

My simple lays? Yes, thou canst boast the merit, Though reft of Joy, that life did still some Hope inherit.

2.

"Tis a refreshing thing on thee to think,

And such as thee, on life's unsolac'd road;

Who from no one, though failing, e'er dost shrink
When call'd upon that aught might be bestow'd.
Frank, gen'rous, with a heart where ever glow'd,
And still glows, sympathy's most cheering flame;
From thee, on every side, there still hath flow'd
A tributary stream, whose selfless aim,
Though it disperse to all, no eulogy doth claim.

3.

Like to a river, which, thro' covert wild,

And shrubby underwood, its smooth lapse winds; Or through the wide champaine, blithe as a child, So unpresumingly its passage finds,

That by the brighter green more various kinds, And richer hue of flowerets here and there,

Where'er its course it takes, kiss'd by the winds, We chiefly guess, munificently fair,

That where we look, to heaven its bosom it doth bare.

4.

Like to that river too (another cause

Of its meek imperceptibility)

That 'tis so clear, that to its wave it draws
A second portrait of whate'er we see ;
A second portraiture most easily
Confounded with th' original! Thus thou

Bear'st on thy flexile countenance and free,
Whatever impress other's cares there plough,

And all their joys and griefs are pictur'd on thy brow.

'Tis their augmented happiness alone,

Except to the discerning eye of Heaven,
Which bears an evidence thou movest on;
Without pretension so, with path so even,
To thee to be progressive, it is given!

Thus, like the stream I mention'd, whose guess'd way,
The richer hues that round that way have thriven,
So clear and calm it is, alone betray;

To all around thee, thou mute blessings dost convey.