Well it becomes thee, Britain, to avow JOHNSON's high claims!--yet boasting that his fires Were of _unclouded_ lustre, TRUTH retires Blushing, and JUSTICE knits her solemn brow; The eyes of GRATITUDE withdraw the glow His moral strain inspir'd.--Their zeal requires That thou should'st better guard the sacred Lyres, Sources of thy bright fame, than to bestow Perfection's wreath on him, whose ruthless hand, Goaded by jealous rage, the laurels tore, That JUSTICE, TRUTH, and GRATITUDE demand Should deck those Lyres till Time shall be no more.-- A radiant course did Johnson's Glory run, But large the spots that darken'd on its Sun. SONNET LXIX. TO A YOUNG LADY, PURPOSING TO MARRY A MAN OF IMMORAL CHARACTER IN THE HOPE OF HIS REFORMATION. Time, and thy charms, thou fanciest will redeem Yon aweless Libertine from rooted vice. Misleading thought! has he not paid the price, His taste for virtue?--Ah, the sensual stream Has flow'd too long.--What charms can so entice, What frequent guilt so pall, as not to shame The rash belief, presumptuous and unwise, That crimes habitual will forsake the Frame?-- [1]Thus, on the river's bank, in fabled lore, The Rustic stands; sees the stream swiftly go, And thinks he soon shall find the gulph below A channel dry, which he may safe pass o'er.-- Vain hope!--it flows--and flows--and yet will flow, Volume decreaseless, to the FINAL HOUR. 1: “Rusticus exspectat dum defluit amnis: at ille Labitur, et labetur in omne volubilis ævum.” HORACE. SONNET LXX. TO A YOUNG LADY IN AFFLICTION, WHO FANCIED SHE SHOULD NEVER MORE BE HAPPY. Yes, thou shalt smile again!--Time always heals In youth, the wounds of Sorrow.--O! survey Yon now subsided Deep, thro' Night a prey To warring Winds, and to their furious peals Surging tumultuous!--yet, as in dismay, The settling Billows tremble.--Morning steals Grey on the rocks;--and soon, to pour the day From the streak'd east, the radiant Orb unveils In all his pride of light.--Thus shall the glow Of beauty, health, and hope, by soft degrees Spread o'er thy breast; disperse these storms of woe; Wake, with sweet pleasure's sense, the wish to please, Till from those eyes the wonted lustres flow, Bright as the Sun on calm'd and crystal Seas. SONNET LXXI. TO THE POPPY.