TO

ROBERT SOUTHEY,

WHO HAS EXHIBITED IN HIS PROSE WORKS, AS IN HIS LIFE,

THE PURITY AND VIRTUES OF ADDISON AND LOCKE,

AND IN HIS POETRY THE IMAGINATION

AND SOUL OF SPENSER,

THESE POEMS,

WITH EVERY AFFECTIONATE PRAYER, ARE INSCRIBED

BY

HIS SINCERE FRIEND,

WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES.

[2] I confined myself to fourteen lines, because fourteen lines seemed
best adapted to unity of sentiment. I thought nothing about the strict
Italian model; the verses naturally flowed in unpremeditated harmony, as
my ear directed, but the slightest inspection will prove they were far
from being mere elegiac couplets. The subjects were chiefly from river
scenery, and the reader will recollect what Sir Humphrey Davy has said
on this subject so beautifully; it will be recollected, also, that they
were published ten years before those of Mr Wordsworth on the river
Duddon, Yarrow, _et cet._ There have been many claimants, among modern
poets, for the laurel of the sonnet, but, in picturesque description,
sentiment, and harmony, I know none superior to those of my friend the
Rev. Charles Hoyle, on scenery in Scotland, the mountains of Ben Nevis,
Loch Lomond, _et cet._

[3] To account for the present variations, some remained as originally
with their natural pauses, others for the press I thought it best to
correct into verse less broken, and now, after fifty years, they are
recorrected, and restored, I believe, more nearly to the original shape
in which they were first meditated.

[4] I hoped by my Sonnets to pay this vast debt.

[5] His companion, Mr Lovel, died in youth.

SONNETS, ETC.

AT TYNEMOUTH PRIORY,[6]

AFTER A TEMPESTUOUS VOYAGE.

As slow I climb the cliff's ascending side,
Much musing on the track of terror past,
When o'er the dark wave rode the howling blast,
Pleased I look back, and view the tranquil tide
That laves the pebbled shore: and now the beam
Of evening smiles on the gray battlement,
And yon forsaken tower that time has rent:--
The lifted oar far off with transient gleam
Is touched, and hushed is all the billowy deep!
Soothed by the scene, thus on tired Nature's breast
A stillness slowly steals, and kindred rest;
While sea-sounds lull her, as she sinks to sleep,
Like melodies that mourn upon the lyre,
Waked by the breeze, and, as they mourn, expire!

[6] The remains of t