SONNET X.

AT OSTEND, LANDING.

JULY 21, 1787.

THE orient beam illumes the parting oar— From yonder azure track, emerging white, The earliest sail slow gains upon the sight, And the blue wave comes rippling to the shoreMeantime far off the rear of darkness flies:

Yet 'mid the beauties of the morn, unmov'd, Like one for ever torn from all he lov'd, Tow'rds Albion's heights I turn my longing eyes, Where every pleasure seem'd erewhile to dwell: Yet boots it not to think, or to complain, Musing sad ditties to the reckless main: To dreams like these, adieu! the pealing bell Speaks of the hour that stays not—and the day To life's sad turmoil calls my heart away.

SONNET XI.

AT OSTEND,

JULY 22, 1787.

How

sweet the tuneful bells' responsive peal! As when, at opening morn, the fragrant breeze Breathes on the trembling sense of wan disease, So piercing to my heart their force I feel! And hark! with lessening cadence now they fall, And now, along the white and level tide, They fling their melancholy musick wide; Bidding me many a tender thought recall Of summer-days, and those delightful years When by my native streams, in life's fair prime, The mournful magick of their mingling chime First wak'd my wond'ring childhood into tears! But seeming now, when all those days are o'er, The sounds of joy once heard, and heard no more.

SONNET XII.

ON THE

RIVER RHINE.

'TWAS morn, and beauteous on the mountain's brow (Hung with the beamy clusters of the vine)

Stream'd the blue light, when on the sparkling RHINE We bounded, and the white waves round the prow In murmurs parted ;-varying as we go,

Lo! the woods open, and the rocks retire, Some convent's ancient walls or glist'ning spire 'Mid the bright landscape's track unfolding slow. Here dark, with furrow'd aspect, like despair,

Frowns the bleak cliff-there on the woodland's side The shadowy sunshine pours its streaming tide; Whilst Hope, enchanted with the scene so fair, Would wish to linger many a summer's day, Nor heeds how fast the prospect winds away.

SONNET XIII.

AT

A CONVENT.

IF chance some pensive stranger, hither led,

(His bosom glowing from majestick views, The gorgeous dome, or the proud landscape's hues) Should ask who sleeps beneath this lowly bed'Tis poor MATILDA!-To the cloister'd scene,

A mourner, beauteous and unknown, she came, To shed her tears unmark'd, and quench the flame Of fruitless love: yet was her look serene

As the pale moonlight in the midnight aisle ;

Her voice was soft, which yet a charm could lend,
Like that which spoke of a departed friend,

And a meek sadness sat upon her smile!-
Now, far remov'd from every earthly ill,

Her woes are bury'd, and her heart is still.

SONNET XIV.

O TIME! who know'st a lenient hand to lay

Softest on sorrow's wound, and slowly thence (Lulling to sad repose the weary sense) The faint pang stealest unperceiv'd away; On Thee I rest my only hope at last,

And think, when thou hast dry'd the bitter tear That flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear, I may look back on every sorrow past, And meet life's peaceful evening with a smile

As some lone bird, at day's departing hour, Sings in the sunbeam, of the transient show'r Forgetful, though its wings are wet the while :Yet ah! how much must that poor heart endure, Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure!