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SONNET XI.

Thou bleedest, my poor HEART 1 and thy distress
Reasoning I ponder with a scornful smile
And probe thy sore wound sternly, though the while
Swoln be mine eye and dim with heaviness.
Why didst thou listen to Hope's whisper bland?
Or, listening, why forget the healing tale,
When Jealousy with feverish fancies pale
Jarred thy fine fibres with a maniac's hand?
Faint was that Hope, and rayless!—Yet 'twas fair
And soothed with many a dream the hour of rest:
Thou should'st have loved it most, when most opprest,
And nursed it with an agony of Care,
Even as a Mother her sweet infant heir
That wan and sickly droops upon her breast!

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SONNET XII.

To THE AUTHOR OF THE “ Rob BERs.”

Schiller that hour I would have wished to die,
If through the shuddering midnight I had sent
From the dark dungeon of the tower time-rent
That fearful voice, a famished Father's cry—
Lest in some after moment aught more mean
Might stamp me mortal! A triumphant shout
Black HoRRoR screamed, and all her goblin rout
Diminished shrunk from the more withering scene !
Ah Bard tremendous in sublimity!
Could I behold thee in thy loftier mood
Wandering at eve with finely frenzied eye
Beneath some vast old tempest-swinging wood
Awhile with mute awe gazing I would brood:
Then weep aloud in a wild ecstasy

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COMPOSED WHILE CLIM BING THE LEFT ASCENT of BROCKLEY COOMB, som ER sets HIRE, MAY, 1795.

With many a pause and oft reverted eye
i climb the Coomb's ascent: sweet songsters near
Warble in shade their wild-wood melody:
Far off the unvarying Cuckoo soothes my ear.
Up scour the startling stragglers of the Flock
That on green plots o'er precipices browze:
From the forced fissures of the naked rock
The Yew tree bursts! Beneath its dark green boughs
(Mid which the May-thorn blends its blossoms white)
Where broad smooth stones jut out in mossy seats,
I rest:—and now have gained the topmost site.
Ah! what a luxury of landscape meets
My gazel Proud Towers, and Cots more dear to me,
Elm-shadowed Fields, and prospect-bounding Sea
Deep sighs my lonely heart: I drop the tear:
Enchanting spot! O were my SARA here!

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iN the MANN ER OF SPEN SER.

0 Peace, that on a lilied bank dost love
To rest thine head beneath an Olive Tree,
I would, that from the pinions of thy Dove
One quill withouten pain yplucked might be!
For 0 1 I wish my SARA's frowns to flee,
And fain to her some soothing song would write,
Lest she resent my rude discourtesy,
Who vowed to meet her ere the morning light,
But broke my plighted word—ah! false and recreant
wight!

Last night as I my weary head did pillow
With thoughts of my dissevered Fair engrossed,
Chill Fancy drooped wreathing herself with willow,
As though my breast entombed a pining ghost.
“From someblestcouch, young Rapture's bridal boast,
“Rejected SLUMBER! hither wing thy way;
“But leave me with the matin hour, at most!
“As night-closed Floweret to the orient ray,
“My sad heart will expand, when I the Maid survey."

But Love, who heard the silence of my thought,
Contrived a too successful wile, I ween :
And whispered to himself, with malice fraught—
“Too long our Slave the Damsel's smiles hath seen:
“To-morrow shall he ken her altered mien!”
He spake, and ambushed lay, till on my bed
The morning shot her dewy glances keen,
When as I'gan to lift my drowsy head—
“Now, Bard! I'll work thee woe t” the laughing
Elfin said.

Sleep, softly-breathing God! his downy wing
Was fluttering now, as quickly to depart;
When twanged an arrow from Love's mystic string,
With pathless wound it pierced him to the heart.
Was there some Magic in the Elfin's dart?
Or did he strike my couch with wizard lance?
For straight so fair a Form did upwards start
(No fairer decked the Bowers of old Romance)
That SLEEP enamoured grew, nor moved from his
sweet Trance!

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