SONNET XII.

TO THE SAME.

5th June, 1800.

Aн, go my Sister!-do not vainly try
To reconcile thy bosom's fervent beat
To sordid Art's unnatural pageantry!

In spotless youth, thy fancy-guided feet, Have trod the plains, and search'd the mossy dells,

The foaming mountain-torrent's mighty fall; Have traced the haunts where Inspiration dwells; And vainly, Maiden, would thy soul recall Feelings which Nature banished when she view'd Thy youth so vowed to mystic solitude,

And o'er thy form her sacred mantle threw : "Henceforth," she cried, "Oh Maid of noble

heart,

"Should thou my hallow'd turf-built shrine desert,

"Nought can thy vanished happiness renew."

SONNET XIII.

TO THE SAME.

6th June, 1800.

HEED not the tongue, nor heed the brutal look; Pure Maiden heed them not, though they assail Thy simple ear with many a baneful tale; Thine eye with insult thou disdainst to brook! Keep that indignant soul! and Folly, strook

With shame, (if shame o'er Folly e'er prevail,) Shall hie him back with disappointment pale, And mutter fresh spells o'er his cursed book. Mutter'd in vain !-For, disenchanted thou,

No spell can wither thee, no charm can bind; Nature hath heard thy youth's religious vow, And 'till thou art in her sanctuary shrin'd, She, watchful for her Child, shall chase away "Terrors by night, and enemies by day."

SONNET XIV.

TO THE SAME.

6th June, 1800.

WILT thou with me the rifted mountain seek?
Say, shall I feel thine arm entwin'd in mine,
See nature's healthful blush adorn thy cheek,
And catch the gleams of sympathy divine
Intelligibly traced in looks like thine?

Oh, Maiden, shall our full hearts inly speak

Thanks to the God of nature? Near some pine, Which sobs, and waves, to gales from mountains bleak,

Whose knotted roots transparent fountains lave, Say, shall we lift our eyes, and as we see Nature's unutterable majesty,

The rock, the hill, the lake, the woods that wave,.. For all the wonders which his bounty gave, Praise Him who "habiteth eternity."

SONNET XV.

TO THE SAME.

6th June, 1800.

Now fade the obtrusive colours of the day,
Like liquid gold the smooth clear lake lies still,
One streak of purple clouds above the hill
Rests in the silence of the parting ray:
O'er woods, streams, heights, heaven's magic
glories play;

And, save the bleatings of the distant flocks,
That murmur faintly from yon wood-fringed

rocks,

The linnets, or the throstle's evening lay.
The soothing dash of oars that linger near

Yon headland summit (where the sun-tipt sail Peeps 'mid the woodland's shadow) to the ear No sound is brought!-Dear maid, can aught prevail

To shake thy soul when scenes like these appear, Or bid the tides of genial nature fail?

SONNET XVI.

TO THE SAME.

8th June, 1800.

On the calm eve of summer's fervid day

Say, shall we sail along the lake's clear tide? And, bounding in the little skiff, survey

The countless forms that grace its gorgeous side;

The faint decline of landscape scarce espied, That to the horizon southward dies away, The mass of ancient rock like castle gray,

The solemn wood, or mountain bleak and wide; The little promontory's joyous green,

The intersecting underwood, the cot,

Or pastoral farm, whose herds at evening seen, Wind with slow varying course the sloping

vale,

Maiden, does Fancy, whispering, cheat or not?

"Yes, on that glassy tide your bark shall sail.”