Fortunate Vale! exulting Hill! dear Plain! Where morn, and eve, my soul's fair Idol stray'd, While all your winds, that murmur'd thro' the glade, Stole her sweet breath; yet, yet your paths retain Prints of her step, by fount, whose floods remain In depth unfathom'd; 'mid the rocks, that shade, With cavern'd arch, their sleep.--Ye streams, that play'd Around her limbs in Summer's ardent reign, The soft resplendence of those azure eyes Ting'd ye with living light.--The envied claim These blest distinctions give, my lyre, my sighs, My songs record; and, from their Poet's flame, Bid this wild Vale, its Rocks, and Streams arise, Associates still of their bright MISTRESS' fame. 1: This Sonnet is not a Translation or Paraphrase, but is written in the Character of Petrarch, and in imitation of his manner. SONNET XXVI. O partial MEMORY! Years, that fled too fast, From thee in more than pristine beauty rise, Forgotten all the transient tears and sighs Somewhat that dimm'd their brightness! Thou hast chas'd Each hovering mist from the soft Suns, that grac'd Our fresh, gay morn of Youth;--the Heart's high prize, Friendship,--and all that charm'd us in the eyes Of yet unutter'd Love.--So pleasures past, That in thy crystal prism thus glow sublime, Beam on the gloom'd and disappointed Mind When Youth and Health, in the chill'd grasp of Time, Shudder and fade;--and cypress buds we find Ordain'd Life's blighted roses to supply, While but _reflected_ shine the golden lights of Joy. SONNET XXVII. See wither'd WINTER, bending low his head; His ragged locks stiff with the hoary dew; His eyes, like frozen lakes, of livid hue; His train, a sable cloud, with murky red Streak'd.--Ah! behold his nitrous breathings shed Petrific death!--Lean, wailful Birds pursue, On as he sweeps o'er the dun lonely moor, Amid the battling blast of all the Winds, That, while their sleet the climbing Sailor blinds, Lash the white surges to the sounding shore. So com'st thou, WINTER, finally to doom The sinking year; and with thy ice-dropt sprays, Cypress and yew, engarland her pale tomb, Her vanish'd hopes, and aye-departed days. SONNET XXVIII. O, GENIUS! does thy Sun-resembling beam To the internal eyes of Man display In clearer prospect, the momentous way That leads to peace? Do they not rather seem Dazzled by lustres in continual stream, Till night they find in such _excessive_ day? Art thou not prone, with too intense a ray, To gild the hope improbable, the dream Of fancied good?--or bid the sigh upbraid Imaginary evils, and involve All real sorrow in a darker shade? To fond credulity, to rash resolve Dost thou not prompt, till reason's sacred aid And fair discretion in thy fires dissolve? SONNET XXIX. SUBJECT CONTINUED.