SONNETS. TO CAPEL LOFFT, ESQ. LOFFT, unto thee one tributary song The simple Muse, admiring, fain would bring; She longs to lisp thee to the listening throng, And with thy name to bid the woodlands ring. Fain would she blazon all thy virtues forth, Thy warm philanthropy, thy justice mild, Would say how thou didst foster kindred worth, And to thy bosom snatch'd Misfortune's child: Firm she would paint thee, with becoming zeal, Upright, and learned, as the Pylian sire, Would say how sweetly thou could'st sweep the lyre, And shew thy labours for the public weal, Ten thousand virtues tell with joys supreme, But ah! she shrinks abash'd before the arduous theme. TO THE MOON. WRITTEN IN NOVEMBER. SUBLIME, emerging from the misty verge And leaving leaves bestrew the wanderer's way, WRITTEN AT THE GRAVE OF A FRIEND. FAST from the West the fading day-streaks fly, And o'er my friend still pour the plaintive lay. The busy world pursues its boisterous way, Yet still I weep o'er thy deserted mound. And 'neath the green-sward sleep the sleep of peace. TO MISFORTUNE. MISFORTUNE, I am young, my chin is bare, And I have wonder'd much when men have told, How youth was free from sorrow and from care, That thou should'st dwell with me, and leave the old. Sure dost not like me!-Shrivell'd hag of hate, My phiz, and thanks to thee, is sadly long; I am not either, Beldame, over strong; Nor do I wish at all to be thy mate, |