SONNET XV.

Lov'D, prais'd, and sought, yet modest, and retir'd,
Adorn'd, yet artless, beautiful, yet good,
Sincere, tho' flatter'd, virtuous, tho' woo'd,

Nor proud, nor vain, nor envious, tho' admir'd;
How shall I speak to thee, or how inspir'd

Shall dare to praise, where every charm is fix'd To merit praise, and not a weakness mix'd,

To which the proudest praise can come desir'd.

Yet, Lady, may I breathe my gratitude

That thou sometimes hast deign'd to smile on me, And shed a light upon my solitude,

Which sweetly shines like moon-beams on the sea, When sleep sits brooding on the noiseless flood, And like to Heav'n's is Earth's tranquillity.

SONNET XVI.

THE feeble limb, the brow with wrinkles bound,
The sunken cheek-these cannot age endue
With that which makes us wretched, save to view;

'Tis that the Spirit, which in all around

Create rejoic'd, which with elastic bound
From object flew to object, ever new,
And every rainbow-phantom could pursue,

As if the substance could indeed be found;

'Tis that, with this poor flesh, the fire divine

Grows faint and dim, and earth henceforth appears

In all the naked hideousness of Truth;

Age! both thy ills are mine, tho' yet in youth;
I live, and I may live still further years;
What is it but, thro' life, in death to pine?

SONNET XVII.

LOVELY, indeed, art thou, O Solitude!

And good and bad to thy calm refuge fly;

For the deep forest and the starry sky

Make good men better, and make bad men good.

Yet art thou not too strictly to be woo'd;

For, like those poisons whose fine quality

Can still the throb of corporal agony,

But, drunk too oft, death-like arrest the blood;

Thus, Solitude, thy influence soothes the mind;
Thus lulls it in a sweet but dire repose,

'Till man forgets the feelings of his kind,

And Heav'n's best purposes in life foregoes,

Who bade him not to shrink, but bear resign'd,

And mitigate, not fly from other's woes.

SONNET XVIII.

Is there a heart, so harden'd, so defil'd,
Which kindness cannot melt, and purify?
Or beats there one, so tender, and so mild,
That harshness will not blunt its charity?
Men are but what men make them: and the child,
First form'd and fashion'd on his parent's knee,
Is the world's honour, or outcast revil'd,
Even as the world, that judges, bids him be.
For not the chilling frosts and rending wind,
But the soft breezes and sun's genial rays,
Call the fresh flowers and fruitage into bloom:
And thus ourselves we make the human mind

A waste, where like the whirlwind Passion sways,

Or garden, where all Virtues shed perfume.

SONNET XIX.

DREAM not that she, the Nymph whom I adore,
For that she's gay, and beautiful, and young,

Is all unskill'd in wisdom's nobler lore,

That nought but mirth e'er issued from her tongue : What is the law, that wisdom should belong

To age, and frowns, to wrinkles, and to care?

When other powers grow weak, does she grow strong?

In other's wreck can she herself repair?

Go, mark the tree, which golden wealth does bear,. Where on one branch the flower, the fruit expands; The flower, which loads with fragrance all the air,

The fruit, which woos the grasp of outstretch'd hands: So in the Goddess whom I worship, shine

Beauty's fair flower, and wisdom's fruit divine.