Why view'st thou, Edwy, with disdainful mien The little Naiad of the Downton Wave? High 'mid the rocks, where her clear waters lave The circling, gloomy basin.--In such scene, Silent, sequester'd, few demand, I ween, That _last_ perfection Phidian chisels gave. Dimly the soft and musing Form is seen In the hush'd, shelly, shadowy, lone concave.-- As sleeps her pure, tho' darkling fountain there, I love to recollect her, stretch'd supine Upon its mossy brink, with pendent hair, As dripping o'er the flood.--Ah! well combine Such gentle graces, modest, pensive, fair, To aid the magic of her watry shrine. 1: The above Sonnet was addressed to a Friend, who had fastidiously despised, because he did not think it exquisite sculpture, the Statue of a Water-Nymph in Mr. Knight's singular, and beautiful Cold Bath at Downton Castle near Ludlow. It rises amidst a Rotunda, formed by Rocks, and covered with shells, and fossils, in the highest elevation of that mountainous and romantic Scene. SONNET LXI. TO MR. HENRY CARY[1], ON READING HIS SONNETS WRITTEN AT SIXTEEN. Disciple of the bright Aonian Maid In thy life's blossom, a resistless spell Amid the wild wood, and irriguous dell, O'er thymy hill, and thro' illumin'd glade, Led thee, for her thy votive wreaths to braid, Where flaunts the musk-rose, and the azure bell Nods o'er loquacious brook, or silent well.-- Thus woo'd her inspirations, their rapt aid Liberal she gave; nor only thro' thy strain Breath'd their pure spirit, while her charms beguil'd The languid hours of Sorrow, and of Pain, But when Youth's tide ran high, and tempting smil'd Circean Pleasure, rescuing did she stand, Broke the Enchantress' cup and snapt her wand. 1: Then of Sutton Coldfield. SONNET LXII. [1]Dim grows the vital flame in his dear breast From whom my life I drew;--and thrice has Spring Bloom'd; and fierce Winter thrice, on darken'd wing, Howl'd o'er the grey, waste fields, since he possess'd Or strength of frame, or intellect.----Now bring Nor Morn, nor Eve, his cheerful steps, that press'd Thy pavement, LICHFIELD, in the spirit bless'd Of social gladness. They have fail'd, and cling Feebly to the fix'd chair, no more to rise Elastic!--Ah! my heart forebodes that soon The FULL OF DAYS shall sleep;--nor Spring's soft sighs, Nor Winter's blast awaken him!--Begun The twilight!--Night is long!--but o'er his eyes Life-weary slumbers weigh the pale lids down! 1: When this Sonnet was written, the Subject of it had languished three years beneath repeated paralytic strokes, which had greatly enfeebled his limbs, and impaired his understanding. Contrary to all expectation he survived three more years, subject, through their progress, to the same frequent and dreadful attacks, though in their intervals he was serene and apparently free from pain or sickness.