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There would not have been any necessity for this little explanatory remark, had not the other Poems in this Volume, with the exception of those on the Death of Priscilla Farmer, been arranged in the order in which they were written as to time: most of these, on the other hand, as the reader will perceive by comparing dates, are coeval with his earliest productions.

METAPHYSICAL SONNET I.

Written 1794.

My soul's an atom in the world of mind,

Hurl'd from its centre by some adverse storm; The attraction's gone, its movements that confin'd The impulse fled, that urged it to perform Its destined office. Wandering through the void, Each due attrition, each excitement dead, Its moral aim and action seem destroyed, And its existence, like its functions, fled. Love was the parent orb from whence it drew Its moral being, hope its active force; But Love's dear sun shall never shine anew; Nor Hope again direct my wandering course! My life is nothing to mankind!-To me 'Tis worse than nothing! 'Tis all agony!

SONNET II.

TO A PRIMROSE.

COME, simple floweret of the paly leaf!

1795.

With yellow eye, and stalk of downy green, Though mild thy lustre, though thy days are brief,

Oh, come and decorate my cottage scene! For thee, I'll rear a bank where softest moss,

And tenderest grass shall carelessly combine; No haughty flower shall shine in gaudy gloss,

But azure violets mix their buds with thine. Far, far away, each keener wind shall fly,

Each threatening tempest of the early year! Thy fostering gale shall be the lover's sigh!

The dew that gems thy bud the lover's tear! And ere thou diest, pale flower, thou❜lt gain the praise

To have soothed the bard, and to have inspir'd

his lays.

SONNET III.

TO THE RIVER EMONT.

1795.

SWEET, simple stream, the shallow waves that

glide

In peaceful murmurs o'er thy rocky bed; Sweet, simple stream, the gleams of eventide That on thy banks their mellowing lustre shed; Befit the temper of my restless mind!

For, while I hear thy waves, and see the gleam,

Of latest eve, afar from human kind,

To linger here unknown, I fondly dream. I snatch my flute, and breathe a softened lay; Then melting, view it as an only friend; And oft I wonder much, that while so gay, And all unthinking, others onward wend, I here should sadly linger, and rejoice To hear a lone stream, or the flute's soft voice!

SONNET IV.

TO LOCH-LOMOND.

Aug. 1795.

LOMOND, thy rich and variegated scene,
Fantastic now, now dignified, severe;
Thy tufted underwood, of darker green,
Thine arrowy pines that mock the rolling

year;

Thy soft diversity of sweeping bays,

Fringed with each shrub, and edged with tenderest turf,

Where, as the attenuated north-gale plays,
The wild flowers mingle with the harmless

surf:

Thy long protracted lake, expansive now,—

Boldly diversified with wood-crowned Isles,→→ Imprisoned now by rocks, on whose stern brow, Clad with cold heath, the summer scarcely

smiles,

I welcome fearfully;-and hail in thee

The wildest shapings of sublimity.

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