SONNET. FROM THE ITALIAN OF MOZARELLO. YE gales that gently fan the smiling sky, And stealing from the flowers their fragrant dews, With wiles of wanton blandishment, diffuse The gather'd shower of odours as ye fly! Ye verdant vales and streams that murmur by; Fit haunts, which amorous sorrow well might chuse; Who bad your conscious echoes to my Muse, Each whisper'd hope, each flatter'd fear reply! Those conscious echoes I no more to tales Of woe shall wake; since o'er my maulier mind Firm Reason holds again her calm controul : Yet though no more, to lonely grief resign'd, I wander here to weep, not less my soul This cool, this murmur loves, these verdant vales! SONNET. After the Manner of the old English Poets. BY MISS SEWARD.. Pass o'er it, ye, who hate in modern lays GAY trips my nymph along the green retreat, They bend not the young grass, that springs to meet Of Western winds, when, throng in tuneful talk, Amid new leaves, each songster of the grove Cheers, on her mossy nest his listening love. * Ben Jonson's name for the seed vessel of the Dandelion. SONNET * FROM THE ITALIAN OF THE ABBATE MONTI. A HOLY zeal the lovely soul o'erpowers, On the shorn hair, discrown'd of bridal flowers, And beckoning to the silky-curtain'd nook. * On a young Lady's taking the veil. SONNET. Аn why should I at gloomy fate repine, To stem the torrent and the storm to brave. Tho' beauty's soften'd glance, or tender smile, Should never light my face with rapture's glow; Fancy and Genius aid my arduous toil, And give me pleasures worldlings never know. R. CARLYLE. SONNET. TO TWILIGHT. BY MR. R. A. DAVENPORT. MEEK matron, Twilight! at thy silent hour, With folded arms alone to bend my way, Through some faint-rustling grove, or cloister grey, Lost in the musings sweet of sainted Melancholy. |