SONNET:

BY THE SAME,

What honours wait immortal Tasso's lyre !

What raptures crown Marino's flowing rhymes ! Remotest nations Godfrey's deeds admire,

And fair Adonis blooms thro' distant times. See! where the sun from eastern ocean climbs,

See! where he dips his wheels in western main ; Ev’n there man's rugged breast the muse sublimes,

And wins the soul from anguish and from pain; The haughty tyrant, purpled o'er with crimes,

Reveres the Muse, reveres the poet's strain : The fam'd Nepenthè was harmonious song,

The streams of Pindus quench'd the thirst of woe.; may the gods soft melody prolong, And Helicon's deep springs for ever fow.

1

SONNET.

TO WILLIAM PRESTON, ESQ.

BY THE SAME,

NOR let Arabia boast her thousand songs,
And thousand bards illum'd by ray divine :
To us celestial melody belongs,

To us indulgent are the sacred Nine.

Pope, Parnel, Dryden, oft have sweetly sung,

Oft warm'd the heart, and drawn the melting tear; The wood-crown'd hill, and valley oft have rung, Angelic legions oft have stoop'd to hear. Behold a bard from Liffy's echoing shore,

To him her choicest gifts the muse imparts, Gives the deep lyre, gives fancy's richest ore,

The tend'rest verse, and satire's keenest darts; Whether he sings of Twiss and Murcia's maid, Or soothes with melting airs his Clara's shade,

SONNET.

On the Eighth of May, the Birth-Day of Miss GRAHAM of Gartmore, and of EDWARD GIBBON, Esq.

BY THE SAME.

QUEEN of the roseate garland, hither haste,
Immortal MAY, with glitt'ring dew-drops crown'd!
How bright the rainbow zone, which girds thy waist!
Thy purple violets scatter odours round,

Thy fairy footsteps deck with sweets the ground.
Haste, bring a wreath for Margaret's natal day,
A fragrant wreath that boasts perennial bloom;
O let thy Margaret's hand confer the bay

On the great Sage, who bursts the Gothic gloom, And pours strong radiance o'er declining Rome! A balmy morn produc'd fresh beauty's flow'r,

Lo! the same morn saw History's column rise ; MAY smiles in blushes from her verdant bow'r

Ou Gibbon's splendid page, on Graham's matchless

eyes.

SONNET.

SOME boast the vine's intoxicating juice,

And call the Bacchanalian's joys divine ;
Some hoard up riches which they never use ;

But I adore nor splendid gold, nor wine.
For some ambition spreads her varied charms,

Pointing the road to honour and to fame;
Some love the clangor of opposing arms,

And seek for glory in a hero's name.
But in my breast ambition ne'er found place ;

Nor does the clash of arms delight mine ears ;
Be mine the bliss to gaze upon the face

Of her I love, in smiles when it appears ; To taste the balmy kiss, to view her swimming eye ; Press her saft breast, and hear her melting sigh.

J. W

SONNET.

Now Nature rests from her luxuriant birth,
Again with snow the dreary hills are crown'd;
Mute are the groves, and Winter throws around
His cheerless veil, and binds the barren earth:
We, who so late, with scenes of rural mirth
Enraptur'd, trod the flow'r-besprinkled ground,
And heard with carrols ev'ry vale resound,
How shall we seek again the lazy hearth?
Yet Winter has its charms; the solemn hours
To Contemplation's silent joys invite,
Q'er soaring poet or instructive sage:
Most happy he, whose soul exalted tow'rs

Above low cares, and tastes the pure delight,
That amply flows from Wisdom's sacred page.

1795.

E. HAMLEY