louds of Doubt, we find
LOVE rise the Sun, or Comet of the Mind.

SONNET LI.

TO
SYLVIA
ON HER APPROACHING NUPTIALS.

Hope comes to _Youth_, gliding thro' azure skies
With amaranth crown:--her full robe, snowy white,
Floats on the gale, and our exulting sight
Marks it afar.--From _waning_ Life she flies,
Wrapt in a mist, covering her starry eyes
With her fair hand.--But now, in floods of light,
She meets thee, SYLVIA, and with glances, bright
As lucid streams, when Spring's clear mornings rise.
From Hymen's kindling torch, a yellow ray
The shining texture of her spotless vest
Gilds;--and the Month that gives the early day
The scent od[=o]rous[1], and the carol blest,
Pride of the rising Year, enamour'd MAY,
Paints its redundant folds with florets gay.

1: _Od[=o]rous._ Milton, in the Par. Lost, gives the lengthened and
harmonious accent to that word, rather than the short, and _common_
one, [=o]dorous:

----"the bright consummate flower
Spirit od[=o]rous breathes."

SONNET LII.

Long has the pall of Midnight quench'd the scene,
And wrapt the hush'd horizon.--All around,
In scatter'd huts, Labor, in sleep profound,
Lies stretch'd, and rosy Innocence serene
Slumbers;--but creeps, with pale and starting mien,
Benighted SUPERSTITION.--Fancy-found,
The late self-slaughter'd Man, in earth yet green
And festering, burst from his incumbent mound,
Roams!--and the Slave of Terror thinks he hears
A mutter'd groan!--sees the sunk eye, that glares
As shoots the Meteor.--But no more forlorn
He strays;--the Spectre sinks into his tomb!
For _now_ the jocund Herald of the Morn
Claps his bold wings, and sounds along the gloom[1].

1: "It faded at the crowing of the cock." HAMLET.

SONNET LIII.

WRITTEN IN THE SPRING 1785 ON THE DEATH OF THE
POET LAUREAT.

The knell of WHITEHEAD tolls!--his cares are past,
The hapless tribute of his purchas'd lays,
His servile, his Egyptian tasks of praise!--
If not sublime his strains, Fame justly plac'd
Their power above their work.--Now, with wide gaze
Of much indignant wonder, she surveys
To the life-labouring oar assiduous haste
A glowing Bard, by every Muse embrac'd.--
O, WARTON! chosen Priest of Phoebus' choir!
Shall thy rapt song be venal? hymn the THRONE,
Whether its edicts just applause inspire,