t play'd
Around her limbs in Summer's ardent reign,
The soft resplendence of those azure eyes
Ting'd ye with living light.--The envied claim
These blest distinctions give, my lyre, my sighs,
My songs record; and, from their Poet's flame,
Bid this wild Vale, its Rocks, and Streams arise,
Associates still of their bright MISTRESS' fame.

1: This Sonnet is not a Translation or Paraphrase, but is written in
the Character of Petrarch, and in imitation of his manner.

SONNET XXVI.

O partial MEMORY! Years, that fled too fast,
From thee in more than pristine beauty rise,
Forgotten all the transient tears and sighs
Somewhat that dimm'd their brightness! Thou hast chas'd
Each hovering mist from the soft Suns, that grac'd
Our fresh, gay morn of Youth;--the Heart's high prize,
Friendship,--and all that charm'd us in the eyes
Of yet unutter'd Love.--So pleasures past,
That in thy crystal prism thus glow sublime,
Beam on the gloom'd and disappointed Mind
When Youth and Health, in the chill'd grasp of Time,
Shudder and fade;--and cypress buds we find
Ordain'd Life's blighted roses to supply,
While but _reflected_ shine the golden lights of Joy.

SONNET XXVII.

See wither'd WINTER, bending low his head;
His ragged locks stiff with the hoary dew;
His eyes, like frozen lakes, of livid hue;
His train, a sable cloud, with murky red
Streak'd.--Ah! behold his nitrous breathings shed
Petrific death!--Lean, wailful Birds pursue,
On as he sweeps o'er the dun lonely moor,
Amid the battling blast of all the Winds,
That, while their sleet the climbing Sailor blinds,
Lash the white surges to the sounding shore.
So com'st thou, WINTER, finally to doom
The sinking year; and with thy ice-dropt sprays,
Cypress and yew, engarland her pale tomb,
Her vanish'd hopes, and aye-departed days.

SONNET XXVIII.

O, GENIUS! does thy Sun-resembling beam
To the internal eyes of Man display
In clearer prospect, the momentous way
That leads to peace? Do they not rather seem
Dazzled by lustres in continual stream,
Till night they find in such _excessive_ day?
Art thou not prone, with too intense a ray,
To gild the hope improbable, the dream
Of fancied good?--or bid the sigh upbraid
Imaginary evils, and involve
All real sorrow in a darker shade?
To fond credulity, t