SONNET I.

"Content, as random Fancies might inspire,
If his weak harp at times or lonely lyre
He struck with desultory hand, and drew
Some softened tones to Nature not untrue."

BOWLES.

Y heart has thanked thee, Bowles! for those soft strains

Whose sadness soothes me, like the mur-
muring

Of wild-bees in the sunny showers of spring!
For hence not callous to the mourner's pains
Through Youth's gay prime and thornless paths I went:
And when the darker day of life began,
And I did roam a thought-bewildered man,
Their mild and manliest melancholy lent
A mingled charm, which oft the pang consigned
To slumber, though the big tear it renewed;
Bidding such strange mysterious pleasure brood
Over the wavy and tumultuous mind,

As made the soul enamoured of her woe:
No common praise, dear Bard, to thee I owe!

SONNET II.

late I lay in slumber's shadowy vale, With wetted cheek and in a mourner's

guise,

I saw the sainted form of Freedom rise:

She spake! not sadder moans the autumnal gale

D

"Great Son of Genius! sweet to me thy name,
Ere in an evil hour with altered voice

Thou bad'st oppression's hireling crew rejoice
Blasting with wizard spell my laurelled fame.
Yet never, Burke! thou drank'st corruption's bowl!
Thee stormy pity and the cherished lure

Of pomp, and proud precipitance of soul
Wildered with meteor fires. Ah Spirit pure!
That error's mist had left thy purged eye:
So might I clasp thee with a mother's joy!"

SONNET III.

HOUGH roused by that dark Vizir Riot rude

Have driven our Priestly o'er the ocean
swell;

Though superstition and her wolfish brood
Bay his mild radiance, impotent and fell;
Calm in his halls of brightness he shall dwell!
For lo! Religion at his strong behest
Starts with mild anger from the papal spell,
And flings to earth her tinsel-glittering vest,
Her mitred state and cumbrous pomp unholy;
And justice wakes to bid the oppressor wail
Insulting aye the wrongs of patient folly:
And from her dark retreat by wisdom won
Meek Nature slowly lifts her matron veil
To smile with fondness on her gazing son!

SONNET IV.

HEN British Freedom for a happier land Spread her broad wings that fluttered with affright,

Erskine! thy voice she heard, and paused
her flight

Sublime of hope! For dreadless thou didst stand
(Thy censer glowing with the hallowed flame)
A hireless priest before the insulted shrine,
And at her altar pour the stream divine

Of unmatched eloquence. Therefore thy name
Her sons shall venerate, and cheer thy breast
With blessings heavenward breathed. And when
the doom

Of nature bids thee die, beyond the tomb

Thy light shall shine: as sunk beneath the West Though the great summer sun eludes our gaze, Still burns wide Heaven with his distended blaze.

SONNET V.

Twas some Spirit, Sheridan! that breathed
O'er thy young mind such wildly various

power!

My soul hath marked thee in her shaping hour,

Thy temples with Hymettian flowerets wreathed:

And sweet thy voice, as when o'er Laura's bier
Sad music trembled through Vauclusa's glade;
Sweet, as at dawn the love-lorn serenade
That wafts soft dreams to slumber's listening ear.
Now patriot rage and indignation high

Swell the full tones! And now thine eye-beams dance
Meanings of scorn and wit's quaint revelry!
Writhes inly from the bosom-probing glance
The apostate by the brainless rout adored,
As erst that elder fiend beneath great Michael's sword.

SONNET VI.

WHAT aloud and fearful shriek was there, As though a thousand souls one deathgroan poured!

Ah me! they viewed beneath a hireling's
sword

Fallen Kosciusko! Through the burdened air
(As pauses the tired Cossac's barbarous yell
Of triumph) on the chill and midnight gale
Rises with frantic burst or sadder swell

The dirge of murdered Hope! while Freedom pale
Bends in such anguish o'er her destined bier,
As if from eldest time some spirit meek
Had gathered in a mystic urn each tear
That ever furrowed a sad Patriot's cheek,
And she had drained the sorrows of the bowl
Even till she reeled, intoxicate of soul!

SONNET VII.

S when far off the warbled strains are
heard,

That soar on Morning's wing the vales

among,

Within his cage the imprisoned matin bird
Swells the full chorus with a generous song:
He bathes no pinion in the dewy light,
No father's joy, no lover's bliss he shares,
Yet still the rising radiance cheers his sight;
His fellows' freedom soothes the captive's cares!
Thou, Fayette! who didst wake with startling voice
Life's better sun from that long wintry night,
Thus in thy country's triumphs shalt rejoice,
And mock with raptures high the dungeon's might:
For lo! the morning struggles into day,

And Slavery's spectres shriek and vanish from the ray!

SONNET VIII.

HOU gentle look, that didst my soul beguile,

Why hast thou left me? Still in some
fond dream

Revisit my sad heart, auspicious smile!
As falls on closing flowers the lunar beam:
What time, in sickly mood, at parting day
I lay me down and think of happier years;