SONNET.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF MOZARELLO.

YE gales that gently fan the smiling sky,

And stealing from the flowers their fragrant dews, With wiles of wanton blandishment, diffuse

The gather'd shower of odours as ye fly!

Ye verdant vales and streams that murmur by;

Fit haunts, which amorous sorrow well might chuse; Who bad your conscious echoes to my Muse, Each whisper'd hope, each flatter'd fear reply! Those conscious echoes I no more to tales Of woe shall wake; since o'er my maulier mind Firm Reason holds again her calm controul :

Yet though no more, to lonely grief resign'd,

I wander here to weep, not less my soul

This cool, this murmur loves, these verdant vales!

SONNET.

After the Manner of the old English Poets.

BY MISS SEWARD..

Pass o'er it, ye, who hate in modern lays
The quaint hyperbole of ancient praise.

GAY trips my nymph along the green retreat,
With frolic, airy steps; and where they go
Fresh florets rise, in twice their wonted glow.
Yellower the sun-beams o'er the meadows fleet,
Or fancies fond possess me. Her light feet,
Glancing along, no other traces show.

They bend not the young grass, that springs to meet
The falling arch of evening's showery bow,
Nor bruise the emmet on her busy way;
And if the downy blow-ball* flies its stalk,
So would it fly beneath the gentlest play

Of Western winds, when, throng in tuneful talk, Amid new leaves, each songster of the grove Cheers, on her mossy nest his listening love.

* Ben Jonson's name for the seed vessel of the Dandelion.

SONNET *

FROM THE ITALIAN OF THE ABBATE MONTI.

A HOLY zeal the lovely soul o'erpowers,
And bids Licoris to the cloister fly;
Forth from her eyes serene a lustre showers,
Soft as descends the paradisial sky.
LOVE vanquish'd, piqued, in idle ambush lours,
Stamping his broken arrows angrily ;

On the shorn hair, discrown'd of bridal flowers,
Weeping lies scorn'd and trampled LIBERTY.
Blithe PLEASURE, too, his spangled garment shook,
Offering the spicy cup, the fragrant wreath,

And beckoning to the silky-curtain'd nook.
With bitter smile the damsel meets his look,
Closes the holy gates, and proudly saith,
"The keys in keeping I consign to DEATH.”

* On a young Lady's taking the veil.

SONNET.

Аn why should I at gloomy fate repine,
Though robb'd of all that health or fortune gave
A mind sublim'd with Science still is mine,

To stem the torrent and the storm to brave. Tho' beauty's soften'd glance, or tender smile, Should never light my face with rapture's glow; Fancy and Genius aid my arduous toil,

And give me pleasures worldlings never know.
O'er all the realms of Science and of Art
My fancy rambles, and my pencil glides,
And while the soft enchantment binds my heart,
Each wayward wish for trifling joys subsides.
Religion, feeling, sentiment, appear,
To heal the pang and dry the starting tear!

R. CARLYLE.

SONNET.

TO TWILIGHT.

BY MR. R. A. DAVENPORT.

MEEK matron, Twilight! at thy silent hour,
When slow, as loth to part, in western skies
The last fine streak of glowing crimson dies,
And Vesper bastes to lead his starry power;
When the bright dew-drop on each closing flower
Trembles, as soft the lulling zephyr sighs,
And the dull bat on uncouth pinions flies
In frequent circles round his lonely tower :
Ah, then, full dearly do I love to stray
Far from the giddy rout of Comus jolly;

With folded arms alone to bend my way,
Free from the hated din of empty Folly,

Through some faint-rustling grove, or cloister grey, Lost in the musings sweet of sainted Melancholy.