SONNET

TO EMILIA,

BY MR. R. A. DAVENPORT.

"SAD is thy verse," you cry; " yet on thy cheek, The rose appears, still tearless are thine

eyes:

Thy converse gay, thy sorrow's truth denies;
All seems thy soul's serenity to speak."
Mistaken maid! say, must the heart that bleeds,
Obtrusive, tell its agony aloud,

And ask the pity of the careless crowd ?
Believe me, no; it silently recedes,

And sacred seeks within itself to close
From the world's prying eye, its cureless woes,
Diffusing fragrance, many a flower unfolds,
Fair to the summer sun, its vivid bloom:
Yet in its bosom the fell canker holds,
That, mining, gives it to untimely doom.

SONNET.

TO MIRTH.

BY MR. R. A. DAVENPORT.

FAR from my paths, unruly Mirth, retire!

Bend thy light steps to Fortune's favour'd train; There, while the gay, the thoughtless throng admire,

Fix thy bright throne, and rule with boundless reign. Be mine to stray where o'er the babbling stream Its pensive shade the drooping willow throws; Hid from the sultry sun's intrusive beam,

There let me weep, in silence, o'er my woes. And oft, when night involves the world in gloom, Nor e'en one faintly-glimmering star appears; Sad let me wander to his lonely tomb,

Who never more shall Sorrow's bitter tears

Wipe from my eyes, or charm to rest my fears, And bid, with honied voice, Hope's roses bloom

1796.

SONNET.

ANTICIPATION.

BY WM. WORDSWORTH, ESQ.

SHOUT, for a mighty victory is won!

On British ground the Invaders are laid low,
The breath of Heaven has drifted them like snow,

And left them lying in the silent sun

Never to rise again: The work is done.

Come forth ye old men now in peaceful show,

And greet your sons! drums beat, and trumpets blow!

Make merry wives, ye little children stun

Your Grandams' ears with pleasure of your noise!
Clap Infants, clap your hands! Divine must be
That triumph when the very worst, the pain,
The loss, and e'en the prospect of the slain,
Hath something in it which the heart enjoys
True glory, everlasting sanctity.

SONNET.

TO THE MEMORY OF SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

BY MR. R. A. DAVENPORT.

WHEN all the glories of the Muse shall fade,
When dimm'd for ever Valour's ardent flame;
When spotless Virtue, sunk in deepest shade,
No more shall swell the clarion of Fame,
Then, not till then, O Sidney! shall thy name,
Dear to the Muse, to Virtue, Valour dear!
Cease from the tender, and the brave, to claim
The tribute due, of an approving tear;

Till then, thy godlike deeds, thy noble aim,
Thy glorious death, they sighing shall revere:

In bright array, intrepid shall they stand,
To guard from wrong thy memory divine:
Nor shall a trifler's sacrilegious hand,

*

Tear the just laurels from thy hallow'd shrine.

* Horace Walpole.

SONNET.

THY balm, oh Time! all other anguish heals,
But falls unsoothing and unfelt by me;

For hopeless passion loves the pang it feels,

And shuns the peace which sorrow finds in thee. When from the fatal wave the tempest's breath Casts the poor sailor's mangled corse on shore, I sigh to taste with him the peace of death

That peace my heart can feel on earth no more. And when the bright, the cheerful, sun-beams play On the smooth bosom of a summer sea; When ev'ry scene, and ev'ry thought is gay,

The face of Nature smiles in vain on me ; For he is lost, whose smile to joy could move That heart, which only feels Despair and Love.