Hear, honor'd Flaccus, from the vocal shades Where with gay Prior, and thy [1]Teian Peer Thou wanderest thro' the amaranthine glades, While social joys the devious walk endear! Or whether in the bright Elysian bowers, Where the tall vine its lavish mantle spreads, Thou crown'st the goblet with unfading flowers, Sooth'd by the murmuring stream, that labors thro' the meads. Hear, happy Bard!--to wake thy silent lyre Our British Muse, our charming Seward, deigns!-- With more harmonious tones, more sportive fire Beneath her hand arise the potent strains. Then, as thou hear'st the sweet Enthusiast, own Thy fancy's various florets look'd less gay When kiss'd by bright Italia's ardent sun, Than now their hues expand in Albion's milder ray! H. F. CAREY. 1: Anacreon. SONNETS. SONNET I. When Life's realities the Soul perceives Vain, dull, perchance corrosive, if she glows With rising energy, and open throws The golden gates of Genius, she achieves His fairy clime delighted, and receives In those gay paths, deck'd with the thornless rose, Blest compensation.--Lo! with alter'd brows Lours the false World, and the fine Spirit grieves; No more young Hope tints with her light and bloom The darkening Scene.--Then to ourselves we say, Come, bright IMAGINATION, come! relume Thy orient lamp; with recompensing ray Shine on the Mind, and pierce its gathering gloom With all the fires of intellectual Day! SONNET II. The Future, and its gifts, alone we prize, Few joys the Present brings, and those alloy'd; Th' expected fulness leaves an aching void; But HOPE stands by, and lifts her sunny eyes That gild the days to come.--She still relies The Phantom HAPPINESS not thus shall glide _Always_ from life.--Alas!--yet ill betide Austere Experience, when she coldly tries In distant roses to discern the thorn! Ah! is it wise to anticipate our pain? _Arriv'd_, it then is soon enough to mourn. Nor call the dear Consoler false and vain, When yet again, shining through april-tears, Those fair enlight'ning eyes beam on advancing Years. SONNET III. WRITTEN AT BUXTON IN A RAINY SEASON. From these wild heights, where oft the mists descend In rains, that shroud the sun, and chill the gale, Each transient, gleaming interval we hail, And rove the naked vallies, and extend Our gaze around, where yon vast mountains blend With billowy clouds, that o'er their summits sail; Pondering, how little Nature's charms befriend The barren scene, monotonous, and pale. Yet solemn when the darkening shadows fleet Successive o'er the wide and silent hills, Gilded by watry sun-beams, then we meet Peculiar pomp of vision. Fancy thrills, And owns there is no scene so rude and bare, But Nature sheds or grace or grandeur there. SONNET IV.