SONNET.

ОH, Sovereign Nature! thou whose sacred sway
Softens the rugged heart; by thee beguiled,
The soul new-moulds its essence; soft and mild
Is the sweet influence that soothes away
Each jarring discord: thou with thy sweet play

Of forms and tints, waters, and thickets wild, So strongly workest on thy wayward child, That, conquered, all his soul receives thy ray. For me....though many a tear bedews these eyes, Yet view they not untouched the glorious sun, That sets in floods of fire the azure skies,

Or ocean stream; and something have I won From Nature's beauties that may bid me shun The storms of grief, and soften all my sighs.

SONNET.

ON HEARING AN EOLIAN HARF.

SURE 'tis the voice of choired saints that flows
Along the billows of the softened breeze....
And now, in falls and dying symphonies,
So sweet it glides, that forth my rapt soul goes
To join those hymnings, ta'en from all her woes.
Yet once more, and once more, ye minstrelsies
Of power, my stormy spirit to appease,

With some dissolving dream my thoughts compose....

Again your strains float, sinking on the wind,
Soft, wild, and mournful all; now melt away,
Faintly perceived, like some expiring ray
Of memory that trembles o'er the mind,
Lovely in its departure, still enshrined
As the blest relic of a happy day.

SONNET.

TO THE EOLIAN HARP.

WILD Lyre, that speakest to the heart! whose airs
Breathe under fingers of no mortal mould,
Oft has my restless spirit been controuled
By thy soft soothings; cheated by thy snares,
Awhile

my soul forgot her wonted cares,

And lay quite lost in music's mazy fold: Then, oh how sweet! the blissful moments rolled In ectasies my breast no longer shares ;

And I could weep to think that all in vain,

Waked by the breeze, thy transient warblings

flow;

For now the sharp and louder power of woe Hath smote unto my heart; and thy soft strain Little avails to chase away the pain

That my torn bosom evermore must know.

DEVA! when led by Nature's spells, I stray Where through lone dells thy sounding waters

roam,

And dash their dark rock with their silver foam, Then, if the winds in eddies toss thy spray, Or rock those mouldering oaks, that many a day Thy banks have shaded; not the gorgeous dome, The splendid hall, nor, dearer far, my home, My own dear home, shall win me from the sway Of that wild ecstacy that reconciles

The chastened mind to sorrow, and imbues Each thought with tenderness.....Alike with smiles, And frowns sublime, Nature the soul subdues; Nor less her savage grandeur grief beguiles, Than dales, green meads, blue rills, and sunny hues.