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SONNET V.

TO THE SABBATH.

AH! quiet day, I oft recall the time,

1796.

When I did chase my childish sluggishness, The " rear of darkness lingering still," to dress In due sort for thy coming; the first chime

Of blithesome bells, that ushered in thy morn, Carolled to me of rest, and simplest mirth : 'Twas then all happiness on the wide earth

To gaze !-I little dreamt that man was born For aught but wholesome toil, and holiest praise, Thanking that God who made him to rejoice! But, I am changed now! nor could I raise

My sunken spirit at thy well known voice; But that thou seemest soothingly to say, “Look up poor mourner, to a better day.”

SONNET VI.

Written July, 1796.

Now glares the proud sun on the thirsty street, Where the shrunk, swarthy mendicant implores Some scanty pittance from the o'erflowing

stores

Of those that flutter by. How little meet
Is it for fellow mortals thus to greet!

This with an humble gesture that adores ; That with a flinty threat or sneer, that pours A poison to the soul !-Poor wretch, how sweet To bind some balsam on thy heart's keen wound!

To make thee smile, and raise thee to the rank That man should hold, wherever man is

found!

But, Oh, this may not be !-Thou canst but thank

Him who would succour thee!-Be this my meed!

And thy rich thanks shall soothe a heart in need!

THE DEAD FRIEND.

Burton, August, 1797.

WHEN I am quiet, and my centred soul
Rests from its mortal working, it has seem'd
As though the dead friend liv'd again, so sweet
To me has been her memory. Evermore

Would I be so o'ertaken: for my tears
Were tears of pleasantness, and all my sighs
O'erflowings of affection! Hallow'd spirit,
Fain would I cherish the belief that thou
Guidest my onward feet, cleansest my heart
From every fleshly thought. Or when I muse
In sacred solitude, or when abroad

I ponder on my desultory way;

heart not owns,

Or when in active life I force myself
To wear the semblance which my
I love to think that thou dost mingle still
The holy leav'nings of inbreathed love
With all my frail and unregenerate thoughts.
The dear remembrance of thy kindled eye

When it met mine; thy grasp of tenderness;
Thy mute expression of anxiety

When I was sore perplex'd; thy awful tones,
Full, holy, and melodious, that inclin'd

My difficult ear, and drew my wayward heart
"To the better cause:" all these live o'er again,
And fill the lonely hour with such strange shades
Of past existence, that I seem to greet

My former self, and be again that child

Whom thou didst love so well, who knew so well The value of that love!

O thou wast all

To me!-the vacancy which thou hast left
No mortal may fill up; it is a part

To thee and Heaven devoted! I would there
Treasure each manlier truth, whose rudiment
I learn'd from thee, best parent! Every form
Of beauty, every loftier thought, and all
The unshap'd energies which I may win
To bright perfection's aim; these visitants
Alone, that sanctuary of my inmost soul
Shall pierce, where thou dost dwell.

And when mankind

Deem hardly of my doings, I will turn

To thee, best friend! And if the time should come
When all forsake me, if at that lone hour,
That dreary pause of mental solitude,
On thy invisible solace I may lean,
Twill fill my bosom till it overflows;
For thou wast pure, and sternly virtuous,
Yet tender and affectionate. Thy will
Was holy and unbending; yet that will
Was mild in act; pursuing rigidly,

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With singleness of soul, the work that Heaven
Had giv'n thee to perform; yet bearing ever
Thy lofty calling with so meek a mien,
That all with mute involuntary awe

Felt ere they call'd thee good! Farewell, and raise
My backward heart to somewhat of the state
Hallowing thy mortal pilgrimage, that so
In happier worlds than this we meet again!

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