The evening shines in May's luxuriant pride, And all the sunny hills at distance glow, And all the brooks, that thro' the valley flow, Seem liquid gold.--O! had my fate denied Leisure, and power to taste the sweets that glide Thro' waken'd minds, as the soft seasons go On their still varying progress, for the woe My heart has felt, what balm had been supplied? But where great NATURE smiles, as _here_ she smiles, 'Mid verdant vales, and gently swelling hills, And glassy lakes, and mazy, murmuring rills, And narrow wood-wild lanes, her spell beguiles Th' impatient sighs of Grief, and reconciles Poetic Minds to Life, with all her ills. _May 1774._ SONNET XVI. TRANSLATED FROM BOILEAU. Apollo, at his crowded altars, tir'd Of Votaries, who for trite ideas thrown Into loose verse, assume, in lofty tone, The Poet's name, untaught, and uninspir'd, Indignant struck the LYRE.--Straight it acquir'd New powers, and complicate. Then first was known The rigorous Sonnet, to be fram'd alone By duteous Bards, or by just Taste admir'd.-- Go, energetic SONNET, go, he cried, And be the test of skill!--For rhymes that flow Regardless of thy rules, their destin'd guide, Yet take thy name, ah! let the boasters know That with strict sway my jealous laws preside, While I no wreaths on _rebel_ verse bestow. SONNET XVII. Ah! why have I indulg'd my dazzled sight With scenes in Hope's delusive mirror shown? Scenes, that too seldom human Life has known In kind accomplishment;--but O! how bright The rays, that gilded them with varied light Alternate! oft swift flashing on the boon That might at FAME's immortal shrine be won; Then shining soft on tender LOVE's delight.-- Now, with stern hand, FATE draws the sable veil O'er the frail glass!--HOPE, as she turns away, The darken'd crystal drops.----Heavy and pale, Rain-pouring clouds quench all the darts of day; Low mourns the wind along the gloomy dale, And tolls the Death-bell in the pausing gale. SONNET XVIII. AN EVENING IN NOVEMBER, WHICH HAD BEEN STORMY, GRADUALLY CLEARING UP, IN A MOUNTAINOUS COUNTRY. Ceas'd is the rain; but heavy drops yet fall From the drench'd roof;--yet murmurs the sunk wind Round the dim hills; can yet a passage find Whistling thro' yon cleft rock, and ruin'd wall. The swoln and angry torrents heard, appal, Tho' distant.--A few stars, emerging kind, Shed their green, trembling beams.--With lustre small, The moon, her swiftly-passing clouds behind, Glides o'er that shaded hill.--Now blasts remove The shadowing clouds, and on the mountain's brow, Full-orb'd, she shines.--Half sunk within its cove Heaves the lone boat, with gulphing sound;--and lo! Bright rolls the settling lake, and brimming rove The vale's blue rills, and glitter as they flow. SONNET XIX. TO ----.