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 permission so politely granted, to insert it here, and for the good opinion 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. O think! to vindicate its genuine praise 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, 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 Through the smooth murmurs of thy frequent close. 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 Of Druid sage, who on the far-off ear Pour'd his lone song, to which the surge replied: SONNET IX. WHAT art thou, MIGHTY ONE! and where thy seat? The rolling thunders and the lightnings fleet. Disturb'st the sleeping giant of the Ind. Of sultry tracts, where the lone caravan Hears nightly howl the tiger's hungry brood. Vain thought! the confines of his throne to trace, Who glows through all the fields of boundless space. A BALLAD. BE hush'd, be hush'd, ye bitter winds, That 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, A heart-sick weary wand'rer here. My child moans sadly in my arms, The winds they will not let it sleep; Ah, 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, |