s brim beside,
When, with a sudden gust, the western wind
Rustles among the boughs that shade the tide:
See, from the stream, innoxious and benign,
Starting she bounds, with terror vain as thine!

1: "Vitas hinnuleo me similis Chloe." HORACE.

SONNET LVII.

WRITTEN THE NIGHT PRECEDING THE [1]FUNERAL OF
MRS. CHARLES BUCKERIDGE.

In the chill silence of the winter eve,
Thro' Lichfield's darken'd streets I bend my way
By that sad mansion, where NERINA's Clay
Awaits the MORNING KNELL;--and awed perceive,
In the late bridal chamber, the clear ray
Of numerous lights; while o'er the ceiling stray
Shadows of those who frequent pass beneath
Round the PALE DEAD.--What sounds my senses grieve!
For now the busy hammer's stroke appals,
That, "in dread note of preparation," falls,
Closing the sable lid!--With sighs I bear
These solemn warnings from the House of Woes;
Pondering how late, for young NERINA, there,
Joyous, the Love-illumin'd Morn arose.

1: In Lichfield Cathedral the funeral rites are performed early in
the Morning.

SONNET LVIII.

Not the slow Hearse, where nod the sable plumes,
The Parian Statue, bending o'er the Urn,
The dark robe floating, the dejection worn
On the dropt eye, and lip no smile illumes;
Not all this pomp of sorrow, that presumes
It pays Affection's debt, is due concern
To the FOR EVER ABSENT, tho' it mourn
Fashion's allotted time. If Time consumes,
While Life is ours, the precious vestal-flame
Memory shou'd hourly feed;--if, thro' each day,
She with whate'er we see, hear, think, or say,
Blend not the image of the vanish'd Frame,
O! can the alien Heart expect to prove,
In worlds of light and life, a reunited love!

SONNET LIX.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
LADY MARIANNE CARNEGIE,
passing her winters at Ethic House on the Coast of Scotland, with
her Father, Lord Northesk, who retired thither after the death
of his excellent Countess.

WRITTEN FEBRUARY 1787.

Lady, each soft effusion of thy mind,
Flowing thro' thy free pen, shows thee endu'd
With taste so just for all of wise, and good,
As bids me hope thy spirit does not find,
Young as thou art, with solitude combin'd
That wish of change, that irksome lassitude,
Which often, thro' unvaried days, obtrude
On Youth's rash bosom, dangerously inclin'd
T