1: This Sonnet was written in an Apartment of the West Front of the Bishop's Palace at Lichfield, inhabited by the Author from her thirteenth year. It looks upon the Cathedral-Area, a green Lawn encircled by Prebendal Houses, which are white from being rough-cast. SONNET XLI. INVITATION TO A FRIEND. Since dark December shrouds the transient day, And stormy Winds are howling in their ire, Why com'st not THOU, who always can'st inspire The soul of cheerfulness, and best array A sullen hour in smiles?--O haste to pay The cordial visit sullen hours require!-- Around the circling walls a glowing fire Shines;--but it vainly shines in this delay To blend thy spirit's warm Promethean light. Come then, at Science', and at Friendship's call, Their vow'd Disciple;--come, for they invite! The social Powers without thee languish all. Come, that I may not hear the winds of Night, Nor count the heavy eave-drops as they fall. _Dec. 21st, 1782._ SONNET XLII. Lo! the YEAR's FINAL DAY!--Nature performs Its obsequies with darkness, wind, and rain; But Man is jocund.--Hark! th' exultant strain From towers and steeples drowns the wintry storms! No village spire but to the cots and farms, Right merrily, its scant and tuneless peal Rings round!--Ah! joy ungrateful!--mirth insane! Wherefore the senseless triumph, ye, who feel This annual portion of brief Life the while Depart for ever?--Brought it no dear hours Of health and night-rest?--none that saw the smile On lips belov'd?--O! with as gentle powers Will the next pass?--Ye pause!--yet careless hear Strike these last Clocks, that knell th' EXPIRING YEAR! _Dec. 31st, 1782._ SONNET XLIII. TO MAY, IN THE YEAR 1783. My memory, long accustom'd to receive In deep-engraven lines, each varying trait Past Times and Seasons wore, can find no date Thro' many years, O! MAY, when thou hadst leave, As now, of the great SUN, serene to weave Thy fragrant chaplets; in poetic state To call the jocund Hours on thee to wait, Bringing each day, at morn, at noon, at eve, His mild illuminations.--Nymph, no more Is thine to mourn beneath the scanty shade Of half-blown foliage, shivering to deplore Thy garlands immature, thy rites unpaid; Meads dropt with [1]gold again to thee belong, Soft gales, luxuriant bowers, and wood-land song. 1: Kingcups. SONNET XLIV.