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SCORN not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frown'd,
It cheer'd mild Spenser, call'd from Faery-land
To struggle through dark ways; and, when a damp
Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand
The Thing became a Trumpet, whence he blew
TO THE LADY BEAUMONT.
LADY! the songs of Spring were in the grove
A labyrinth, Lady! which your feet shall rove.
COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSter bridge, SEPT. 3, 1803.
EARTH has not any thing to show more fair:
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
I GRIEV'D for Buonaparte, with a vain
By which true Sway doth mount; this is the stalk
ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC.
ONCE did She hold the gorgeous East in fee;