SONNET.

To the late Honourable Alexander Frazer Tytler, Lord Woodhouselee, on his removal from the Civil to the Criminal Bench.

BY MISS MITFORD.

SWEET is the sound, when by Valclusa's cell,
Where Sorga's murmuring waters softly glide,
The sighing breeze now sweeps the rock's tall side,
Now faintly mingles with the river's swell.
Each mournful sound of Laura seems to tell,

Of Petrarch, constancy's and learning's pride!
And of that love so pure yet so decried,
Which woke to Laura's name his peerless shell.
Champion of Petrarch's vindicated fame,
Most deeply hast thou felt its melody-

Now sweeter dearer sounds thine ear shall claim, When stainless innocence, from danger free,

When rescued penitence shall breathe thy name, And pour one trembling prayer for Woodhouselee.

SONNET.

To a Friend, on his asking me why I had not lately written any verse.

FLED is the Muse, who once, with magic power,
Her beams of orient light was wont to throw
O'er the dark cloud of many a lonely hour;

And warm my sinking heart with rapturous glow. Fled is the muse! no longer, as I stray

At dawn or dusky eve the woods along,
She, heavenly partner of my devious way,
Inspires the wild, enthusiastic song.

No more, when night and silence hold their reign,
She hovers round my couch of care and pain,

And bids bright forms from starry realms appear:
Averse, she flies! my soul to woe she leaves;
Nor joy, nor hope, that drooping soul receives;
But all is cold, and desolate, and drear.

1802.

R. A. DAVENPORT.

SONNET.

INSCRIPTION FOR THE MONUMENT OF THE
DEFENDERS OF SARAGOSSA.

BELOV'D and honour'd, here the relics rest
Of those in Saragossa's walls who fell,
What time the accurs'd Napoleon sought to quell
The flame that glow'd in each Iberian breast.
Death vainly frown'd, in direst horrors drest!
Nor sword, nor circling fires, nor rending shell,
Nor treacherous mine, nor all that aids to swell
The storm of war, their dauntless souls depress'd.
Bewail not thou with tears the glorious brave:

No! let thy heart with patriot thoughts beat high!
Here kneel, and swear, upon their hallow'd grave,
Like them, a tyrant's myriads to defy;
Like them, to spurn the loathsome name of slave;
Like them, to toil, to combat, and to die.

R. A. DAVENPORT.

SONNET.

ON THE DEATH OF COLONEL SCHILL, 1809.

BRIEF was thy course, brave Schill! but dazzling blaze O'er that brief course the star of glory shed:

'Twas thine, for fetter'd realms the sword to raise ;

And dare a foe who smote those realms with dread. 'Twas thine, at honour and at freedom's call,

To scorn of danger and of death the frown; 'Twas thine, awhile, to triumph o'er the Gaul,

And nurse the dreams of conquest and renown.
Nor wert thou doom'd those visions to resign:
Ere hope expir'd, to press the field was thine;

Nor hear the taunt, nor wear the chain, of foes. Bless'd was thy fate! who would not rather own The few and glowing hours which thou hast known, Than long and languid years of indolent repose?

R. A. DAVENPORT.

SONNET.

TO THE SPIRIT OF THE LATE QUEEN OF PRUSSIA.

TH

HOUGE never can celestial beings feel

The spirit of dark revenge, yet sure the glow Of righteous triumph o'er their breasts may steal,

When tyrants sink, o'erwhelm'd by shame and woe. Then, from the realm where hymning seraphs kneel, Bend, O high-minded queen! thy glance below: Heaven hears, at length, the groaning world's appeal ; And dooms the stern oppressor's overthrow.

He towers not now, imperial victor hail'd

By thronging myriads, in their slavish mood; As when the fires of Prussia's star were paled, And Jena's plain the Prussian blood embrued: He flies! he flies! in shades of darkness veil'd; By all the wrath of earth and heaven pursued.

JAN. 1813.

R. A. DAVENPORT.