SONNET XXXVI.

FROM PETRARCH.

1st February, 1807.

LOVE, I transgress, and consciously transgress, But, like the wretch, whom inward flames con

sume,

My pangs increase, and reason's aid suppress, Till cureless agony complete my doom. Some little check to importunate distress

The fear inspired, that I might bring a gloom On her sweet hours of peace; but now no less Than fell despair goads boldly to presume. Of reckless ravings, petulant and wild,

'Tis thou, not I, oh Love, the guilt must bear, Who thus dost every power of thought perplex,

So that to airy nothings, like a child,

And worse than airy nothings, I repair-
Oh, pardon thou who thus my heart dost

vex.

SONNET XXXVII.

TO SOLITUDE.

In solitude

What happiness?-Who can enjoy alone?
Or, all enjoying, what contentment find?

3d February, 1807.

OH Solitude, let him thy aid implore,

Whose o'erwrought soul the busy world hath tired;

And oft thou'rt wisely wooed by him inspired With taste, and learning's independent lore. But, Solitude, thou art a friend no more,

To him, who, with a hopeless passion fired, To brood unmarked, incautious, hath retired On joys whose stings remain, whose sweets are o'er.

Then, Solitude, thou soft but dangerous power, Who charm'st the enthusiast with insidious

rest,

Thy silent days unnerve, relax ;-and drest In dire illusion, comes thy loneliest hour!

The cheerful Spirit would not be thy guest! And Frenzy clasps the wretched in thy bower.

SONNET XXXVIII.

TO SOLITUDE.

3d February, 1807.

BETTER the boisterous tide of life to stem,
Than dwell on Love's enervating delight;
Better to fret thy spirits in the game

Of interest or ambition, than to blight
Thy youth's first vigorous promise; bid the
night

Of disappointment shroud thy noteless name;
Than to a cankering foe yield up the right
Of all those thoughts that pledged thy course to
fame.

Since happiness evades our mortal eye,
Bear we the station firmly heaven assigned!
Ye melting visions that relax the mind

Begone! ye promise peace-but we must buy Our peace on earth with arduous victory

O'er all that Passion to her heart would bind.

SONNET XXXIX.

TO SOLITUDE.

4th February, 1807.

Он, Solitude, thou hast no moderate pain!
Thy griefs are cureless; it were far more wise
To chase of busy life the vanities
And fretting incidents, than court thy reign
Of deep, profoundest gloom. Alas, in vain
Ye seek for peace whose least sensations rise
Above the cold heart's loftiest ecstacies,
By stern proscription of amusement's train.

Better to toil in bleak life's thorny field;
Be galled by interruptions that estrange
Thy thoughts from what thou art; than when

the range

Of outward forms withdraw, till then concealed, To find an inward chaos that will yield

To nought save fortune, time, and place, and change.

SONNET XL.

Inserted in a Novel, written by the author, printed, but not published, called " Isabel."

27th July, 1807.

No
ear shall ever hear my source of woe;
No heart shall e'er conceive the pang I feel;
None but the Almighty power the wound can

heal,

Which prompts my bosom's agonizing throe!
O ye, so eloquent in sorrow, know

Grief is not grief when language may reveal; He is the man of grief who must conceal Thoughts that, like spectres, trackless come and go.

Senses of ear, and eye, and touch, ye raise An insurrection through my inmost soul; Yet o'er that soul the law of duty sways With absolute, invincible control.

Oh Virtue, let me cease to love thy ways! Or bid these tides of passion cease to roll!