ee express'd
Love's better omens, in the green hues dress'd
Of this selected foliage.--Nymph, 't is thine
The warning story on its leaves to find,
Proud Daphne's fate, imprison'd in its rind,
And with its umbrage veil'd, great Phoebus' power
Scorning, and bent, with feet of wind, to foil
His swift pursuit, till on Thessalian shore
Shot into boughs, and rooted to the soil.--
Thus warn'd, fair Maid, Apollo's ire to shun,
Soon may his Spray's and VOTARY's lot be one.

SONNET LXXXVIII.

THE PROSPECT A FLOODED VALE.

The three following Sonnets are written in the character of
Werter; the sentiments and images chiefly, but not _intirely_
taken from one of his letters.

Up this bleak Hill, in wintry Night's dread hour,
With mind congenial to the scene, I come!
To see my Valley in the lunar gloom,
To see it _whelm'd_.--Amid the cloudy lour
Gleams the cold Moon;--and shows the ruthless power
Of yon swoln Floods, that white with turbid foam
Roll o'er the fields;--and, billowy as they roam,
Against the bushes beat!--A Vale no more,
A troubled Sea, toss'd by the furious Wind!--
Alas! the wild and angry Waves efface
Pathway, and hedge, and bank, and stile!--I find
But one wide waste of waters!--In controul
Thus dire, to tides of Misery and Disgrace
Love opes the flood-gates of my struggling Soul.

SONNET LXXXIX.

SUBJECT CONTINUED.

Yon late but gleaming Moon, in hoary light
Shines out unveil'd, and on the cloud's dark fleece
Rests;--but her strengthen'd beams appear to increase
The wild disorder of this troubled Night.
Redoubling Echos seem yet more to excite
The roaring Winds and Waters!--Ah! why cease
Resolves, that promis'd everlasting peace,
And drew my steps to this incumbent height?
I wish!--I shudder!--stretch my longing arms
O'er the steep cliff!--My swelling spirits brave
The leap, that quiets all these dire alarms,
And floats me tossing on the stormy wave!
But Oh! what roots my feet?--what spells, what charms
The daring purpose of my Soul enslave?

SONNET XC.

SUBJECT CONTINUED.

My hour is not yet come!--these burning eyes
Have not yet look'd their _last_!--else, 'mid the roar
Of this wild STORM, what gloomy joy to pour
My freed, exhaling Soul!--sublime to rise,
Rend the conflicting clouds, inflame the skies,
And