In Fancy's richest colouring, than can flow
From jewel'd treasures in the central night
Of their deep caves.--You have no _Sun_ to show
Their inborn radiance pure.--Go, Snarlers, go;
Nor your defects of feeling, and of sight,
To charge upon the POET thus presume,
Ye lightless minds, whate'er of title proud,
Scholar, or Sage, or Critic, ye assume,
Arraigning his high claims with censure loud,
Or sickly scorn; _yours_, _yours_ is all the cloud,
Gems cannot sparkle in the midnight Gloom.

SONNET XXIII.

TO
MISS E. S.

Do I not tell thee surly Winter's flown,
That the brook's verge is green;--and bid thee hear,
In yon irriguous vale, the Blackbird clear,
At measur'd intervals, with mellow tone,
Choiring [1]the hours of prime? and call thine ear
To the gay viol dinning in the dale,
With tabor loud, and bag-pipe's rustic drone
To merry Shearer's dance;--or jest retail
From festal board, from choral roofs the song;
And speak of Masque, or Pageant, to beguile
The caustic memory of a cruel wrong?--
Thy lips acknowledge this a generous wile,
And bid me still the effort kind prolong;
But ah! they wear a cold and joyless smile.

1: "While Day arises, that sweet hour of prime." MILTON'S PAR. LOST.

SONNET XXIV.

TRANSLATION.

Behold the Day an image of the Year!
The Year an image of our life's short span!
Morn, like the Spring, with growing light began,
Spring, like our Youth, with joy, and beauty fair;
Noon picturing Summer;--Summer's ardent sphere
Manhood's gay portrait.--Eve, like Autumn, wan,
Autumn resembling faded age in Man;
Night, with its silence, and its darkness drear,
Emblem of Winter's frore and gloomy reign,
When torpid lie the vegetative Powers;
Winter, so shrunk, so cold, reminds us plain
Of the mute Grave, that o'er the dim Corse lours;
There shall the Weary rest, nor ought remain
To the pale Slumberer of Life's checker'd hours.

SONNET XXV.

[1]PETRARCH to VAUCLUSE.

Fortunate Vale! exulting Hill! dear Plain!
Where morn, and eve, my soul's fair Idol stray'd,
While all your winds, that murmur'd thro' the glade,
Stole her sweet breath; yet, yet your paths retain
Prints of her step, by fount, whose floods remain
In depth unfathom'd; 'mid the rocks, that shade,
With cavern'd arch, their sleep.--Ye streams, tha