lead it back to peace!--as now ye dart,
From your pellucid mansion, the kind rays,
That thro' misleading darkness stream so bright.

1: The lustre of the brightest of the Stars always appeared to me of
a green hue; and they are so described by Ossian.

SONNET XCIV.

All is not right with him, who ill sustains
Retirement's silent hours.--Himself he flies,
Perchance from that insipid equipoise,
Which always with the hapless mind remains
That feels no native bias; never gains
One energy of will, that does not rise
From some external cause, to which he hies
From his own blank inanity.--When reigns,
With a strong, _cultur'd_ mind, this wretched hate
To commune with himself, from thought that tells
Of some lost joy, or dreaded stroke of Fate
He struggles to escape;--or sense that dwells
On secret guilt towards God, or Man, with weight
Thrice dire, the self-exiling flight impels.

SONNET XCV.

On the damp margin of the sea-beat shore
Lonely at eve to wander;--or reclin'd
Beneath a rock, what time the rising wind
Mourns o'er the waters, and, with solemn roar,
Vast billows into caverns surging pour,
And back recede alternate; while combin'd
Loud shriek the sea-fowls, harbingers assign'd,
Clamorous and fearful, of the stormy hour;
To listen with deep thought those awful sounds;
Gaze on the boiling, the tumultuous waste,
Or promontory rude, or craggy mounds
Staying the furious main, delight has cast
O'er my rapt spirit, and my thrilling heart,
Dear as the softer joys green vales impart.

SONNET XCVI.

The breathing freshness of the shining Morn,
Whose beams glance yellow on the distant fields,
A sweet, unutterable pleasure yields
To my dejected sense, that turns with scorn
From the light joys of Dissipation born.
Sacred Remembrance all my bosom shields
Against each glittering lance she gaily wields,
Warring with fond Regrets, that silent mourn
The Heart's dear comforts lost.--But, NATURE, thou,
Thou art resistless still;--and yet I ween
Thy present balmy gales, and vernal blow,
To MEMORY owe the magic of their scene;
For with such fragrant breath, such orient rays,
Shone the soft mornings of my youthful days.

SONNET XCVII.

TO A COFFIN-LID.

Thou silent Door of our eternal sleep,
Sickness, and pain, debility, and woe