o pant for more than peace.--Rich volumes yield
Their soul-endowing wealth.--Beyond e'en these
Shall consciousness of filial duty gild
The gloomy hours, when Winter's turbid Seas
Roar round the rocks; when the dark Tempest lours,
And mourn the Winds round Ethic's lonely towers.

SONNET LX.[1]

Why view'st thou, Edwy, with disdainful mien
The little Naiad of the Downton Wave?
High 'mid the rocks, where her clear waters lave
The circling, gloomy basin.--In such scene,
Silent, sequester'd, few demand, I ween,
That _last_ perfection Phidian chisels gave.
Dimly the soft and musing Form is seen
In the hush'd, shelly, shadowy, lone concave.--
As sleeps her pure, tho' darkling fountain there,
I love to recollect her, stretch'd supine
Upon its mossy brink, with pendent hair,
As dripping o'er the flood.--Ah! well combine
Such gentle graces, modest, pensive, fair,
To aid the magic of her watry shrine.

1: The above Sonnet was addressed to a Friend, who had fastidiously
despised, because he did not think it exquisite sculpture, the Statue
of a Water-Nymph in Mr. Knight's singular, and beautiful Cold Bath at
Downton Castle near Ludlow. It rises amidst a Rotunda, formed by
Rocks, and covered with shells, and fossils, in the highest elevation
of that mountainous and romantic Scene.

SONNET LXI.

TO MR. HENRY CARY[1],
ON READING HIS SONNETS WRITTEN AT SIXTEEN.

Disciple of the bright Aonian Maid
In thy life's blossom, a resistless spell
Amid the wild wood, and irriguous dell,
O'er thymy hill, and thro' illumin'd glade,
Led thee, for her thy votive wreaths to braid,
Where flaunts the musk-rose, and the azure bell
Nods o'er loquacious brook, or silent well.--
Thus woo'd her inspirations, their rapt aid
Liberal she gave; nor only thro' thy strain
Breath'd their pure spirit, while her charms beguil'd
The languid hours of Sorrow, and of Pain,
But when Youth's tide ran high, and tempting smil'd
Circean Pleasure, rescuing did she stand,
Broke the Enchantress' cup and snapt her wand.

1: Then of Sutton Coldfield.

SONNET LXII.

[1]Dim grows the vital flame in his dear breast
From whom my life I drew;--and thrice has Spring
Bloom'd; and fierce Winter thrice, on darken'd wing,
Howl'd o'er the grey, waste fields, since he possess'd
Or strength of frame, or intellect.---