SONNET LIX.

14th Nov. 1807.

WHERE is that crowd of friends that could dis

pense

Refreshing rapture to life's sunny morn?

Where are those loves, affections, that are

born

Of freedom, sentiment, and confidence?
Tis silent all! a blank to every sense!
The energy of life, that used to scorn

The rule of pale experience, is withdrawn!
That power ere while so buoyant and intense!
Yet there is one who faithful still remains,
Who loves my solitude, as once she lov'd

My cheer in social life: who loves my joy, Nor flies my couch when gnawing sickness reigns: She, like the minister of heaven, hath prov'd

That "time and chance" can true love ne'er destroy.

SONNET LX.

14th Nov. 1807.

LET him who runs of active life the race

Despise the Muses: let him, with strong mind, Appropriate objects for each passion find: Yet are there some, who, doomed to quit the chase

Of Interest, or Ambition, whose slow pace
Of languid being to despair resigned,
Could not support the interdict assign'd
To sequestration, with averted face

Did the loved Muses frown on their bleak lot:
For They can give to solitude a power,
Can whisper soothings in the midnight hour;
And raise gay fictions where true joy is not!
The copious dews of sentiment can shower
On Nature's bleakest, most deserted spot!

SONNET LXI.

14th November, 1807.

SAY, what is friendship but true sympathy
Of kindred minds, where mutual feeling burns;
Where cordial warmth the cordial warmth
returns,

And lightens up the heart-conveying eye?
And how do Interest, and Vanity,

Folly, and fear of solitude, by turns,
Hypocrisy that speedily discerns
The worth of borrowed reputation, try
To emulate thy pure consoling flame!

Oh Friendship, with this war of fiends oppress'd,

Where dost thou keep thy soul's serenity? I know thy power will zealously disclaim Divided incense.—Let my heart be blest!For I would sacrifice my all to Thee!

SONNET LXII.

On the Death of Mr. Robert Lloyd, who, together with a Brother married, both of them leaving a Widow, the former with four, and the latter with three Children, and a Sister unmarried, died each of them of Fevers, in the short space of three weeks.

Written 15th November, 1811.

My friend, my brother, no more shall I see
That face affectionate, that face benign,

Those eyes where tenderness did always shine, Whene'er they turned their gentle beams on me. If ever Faith, and Generosity,

Love, and Benevolence almost divine, Forgetfulness of Self, Humility,

Blessed human nature;-Robert, they were thine!

Thy smile,-I see it now,-was kind and sweet
As the first dawnings of an April morn :
Thy warm solicitude each wish to meet,

And catch the struggling meaning ere 'twas

born,

No words can emulate! Who o'er thy urn,

Lost friend, like him who lov'd thee most, should

mourn?

SONNET LXIII.

The same Subject continued; addressed to Mrs. Robert Lloyd.

15th November, 1811.

THOU mourner desolate, what can I say

To dry those tears which fall for him that's gone?

I cannot bid thee hope that on life's way
A human counterpart will e'er be known.
No, never will a pure angelic ray

Like that, which with a sweetness all his own,
His dear face lighted,-never will a tone
Of such solicitude,-thy love repay!—

Yet still thy soul communion sweet may hold, Still may his tenderness engross thy thought! And though those eyes are dim, those lips are cold,

With Love's warm eloquence divinely fraught,
Still 'tis a holier privilege to grieve

For Him, than with a less pure friend to live!