SONNET V.

"Twas but this morn each ruder blast seem'd spent, The Sun look'd proud o'er all his empire blue,

Erect and trim, the ship no motion knew,

Save gently as her onward course she went.

He could have deem'd, who view'd a scene so fair,
The spot, some realm of Fairies of the tide;
The ship, some vehicle of their sport or pride,

In which they came to quaff the upper air.

'Tis evening now, what death-fraught horrors rise!

The ship, except that endless is the shock,

Shakes like the tower, which earth's convulsions rock;

Allied for havoc seem both sea and skies.

Glad shall I leave thee, Ocean! But alas!

Where will not peace and pleasure quickly pass?

SONNET VI.

YE clouds, that fringe the confines of the sky,
With well-pleas'd gaze the poet dwells on you;

But lovelier and more dear you meet mine eye,
As glad I travel o'er the waters blue,

To seek the land where life's first breath I drew.

Let the bright muse, with her creative powers,
Form of your varying shape, and rainbow-hue
Arabian palaces, and fairy bowers:

Visions more sweet on me my fancy pours;

You seem the scenes, from which too long I roam;

There, of my natal hills the dark ridge towers,

Here, sinks the elm-clad vale which hides my home, Whilst yon thin vapour, rising with the breeze,

Seems the blue smoke slow curling thro' the trees.

SONNET VII.

ANOTHER morn, and not a breath to sweep
The slumbering ocean into life again ;

From side to side, the vessel rolls in vain--.
Her course unable or to change, or keep:
So some unwieldy monster of the deep,

Dragg'd from his native regions of the main, Heaves his huge bulk upon the sandy plain. Yet first I lov'd the calm's soft pleasant sleep, Its sparkling waters and its lucid skies;

Enough; let now the storm's dread voice be heard, Rise from your caves, ye warring winds, arise,

Let ocean from his inmost bed be stirr'd;

Who dies at once, but once and nobly dies,

'Tis ceaseless death to live with hope deferr❜d.

SONNET VIII.

?

AH! why go down in clouds, thou glorious sun
Why with dishonor shroud thy radiant head?
For bravely thou, this day, thy work hast done,
And thousand blessings thro' the world hast spread:
Thee, thanks the gatherer of the vintage red,

And thee, the reaper of the harvest dun;

Thee, thank the toilers in the grassy mead,

Thee, Flora's, thee, Pomona's bloom-crown'd son: Thee, blesses the poor wretch, whose thread is spun, Whom to thy beam his limbs with pain have led ; In thee, the youth, in whom health's pulses run,

Exults, and feels his pulses quickened;

Glorious has been thy life, and hallowed;

Then why not proud and bright thy dying bed?

SONNET IX.

LADY, 'twas thou, who taught'st me first to know, There was a pleasure more refin'd than joy,

A pleasure, to which mirth is but alloy,

Tho' deem'd by fools the only good below:

For thou hadst virtue early to forego

The joys of common mortals, and to find,

In the recesses of thy own pure mind,

Treasures, which mines of wealth cannot bestow:

And as I've gaz'd on thee, 'till I could see

No form but thine, where'er I turn'd my eye,

So has my spirit meditated thine,

"Till recollection was reality,

And they are all my own-those raptures high,

Soft dreams, and aspirations all diviné.