SONNET

TO SLEEP.

OH, gentle Sleep! could I command thy power
To bind my senses in thy magic sway,
And let unfetter'd Fancy freely play,
Through the wild mystery of the midnight hour;
Borne on thy softest pinions, I would fly,

And seek the downy bed of her I love;
O'er all her beauties, unresisted, rove,

And feast with charms my mind's enraptur'd eye.
Traitor beguil'd with hope of scenes like these,
Each night I court thy visionary reign;

Each night I sink but to Oblivion's ease,

Each morn but wake to absence and to pain. Oh, Sleep! or bring me to her fancied arms, Or crush not, by thy power, the memory of her charms.

G. C. B.

SONNET.

LONELY my way, when last along this road, Heart-sick and sad I journey'd; as I went, Brooding o'er many a dream of discontent, O'er many a cherish'd sorrow; nor bestow'd' Nature's gay scenes one charm to cheer my way: For on the sunny scene, with reckless

eye, Sullen I gaz'd, and pass'd unheeding by! Sweet are the sorrows of that distant day To painless memory! O'er the self-same plain I journey, blithe of heart; nor heed the wind Sad moaning, nor the dark-descending rain:

For Hope with loveliest visions fills my mind, Of ev'ry blameless joy by Virtue giv'n, Of Peace and Love-oh, realize them, Heav'n!

S.

SONNET.

POETS of Italy, I love you well!

Whether you sing in your immortal strains Of wars and warriors, or you joy to tell

Of gentle maidens and of faithful swains: Whether I list to thee, whose mighty pow'r Bade the dark house of Woe her guests display; Or thee, who in the solitary hour

Hast won my ear with many a love-lorn lay. My heart is so deceiv'd, that it prefers

E'en to the majesty of classic song

Your wilder notes. Yet half the charm is her's
Who taught me what you are. To her belong
to her my gratitude is due:
for my Laura loves you too.

My thanks

I love you,

Dec. 8, 1796.

W. GRAY.

SONNET.

WHEN twilight's sombrous tints o'erspread the scene, And Cynthia's silvery orb, in solemn state,

Rides in the blue expanse, I love to stray,

Where its rich foliage hangs the darksome beach
Over the dusky stream.-The eddying water

Plays round yon moss-grown stone, with trembling light,
While its soft plaintive murmurs meet the ear,
In dying cadence-From the mouldering tower,
Whose shadow rests upon the broken wave,
Forth flits the leathern bat-Now while I list
To the soft tinkling of the distant bell,
My soul, attuned to harmony and peace,
Learns to forget its cares.-'Tis the still hour
Of sweet serenity and tranquil joy.

G.

SONNET,

BY THE LATE REV. W. B. STEVENS.

NORWICH, with thee my sojourn long I close!
Thy proud Cathedral, with its numerous fanes
Encircled, as a hen amidst her brood;
Thy castled cliff with conscious terror view'd
By Caitiff eye from thy meandering lanes;
Thy Tragic belles; and Metaphysic beaux,
Humeites, Berkleyans, and I know not what;
And O! o'er all thy Turkey-crowded mart,-
Mother of feasts prolific, sad at heart,
And with slow step, I leave! My uncouth lot
Calls to a different scene, and distant far;
There, while Trent glides my sequestered spot,
Fancy full oft shall haunt the banks of Yar,
Or waft my absent friend to bless my cot.

Jan. 20, 1791.