WHY bursts the tear, as Cambria, now I leave Thy wild variety of hill and dale, Where fancy, fond intruder, lingers still? Why do these parting sighs my bosom heave? ’Tis, that alas! I ne’er may view again Those haunts, those solitary scenes I love; But thro’ this vale of tears forsaken rove, And taste the sad vicissitude of pain? ’Tis, that I sadly breathe a warm adieu, To long-lost scenes of mutual amity; ’Tis, that I turn, my absent friend, to thee, “Think on past pleasures, and solicit new!” For thee my fervent pray’rs to Heav’n ascend, And may we meet again as friend to friend. SONNET IV. _To the Welsh Harp_. LOV’D instrument! again repeat those sounds, Those plaintive airs, that thro’ my senses steal, With melancholy sweet. Their pow’r I feel Soothing my sadness, healing sorrow’s wounds. Gently thou lull’st my sufferings to repose, Inclin’st my heart to ev’ry virtuous deed, Removing from my mind each dark’ning shade That clouds my days, increasing all my woes. Now swelling with the breeze, along thy vales, Romantic Cambria! the strain I hear, Then dying soft away, comes o’er my ear In whispers soft, still wafted by thy gales! Lov’d instrument! again repeat those sounds, Soothing my sadness, healing sorrow’s wounds. SONNET V. _Supposed to be written by Moon-light_, _on the Sea-shore_, _at_ TENBIGH. I LOVE to mark the silver-curling spray, Just kiss the pebbled shore; the zephyr blows, And ocean slumbers in serene repose; While the moon’s beams in quiv’ring radiance play Upon its surface: yet ere long, that tide May heave its foaming billows to the shore, And the sea boil in one tempestuous roar. See here thy picture, man! reason, thy guide, Can lull each gust of passion into rest; Her aid divine, her energy once lost, In what a sea of angry tumults tost, Raves the mad whirlwind of thy troubled breast! Blind passion then can reason’s aid refute, And degradate the man to worse than brute. SONNET VI. _On seeing_ LLANGOLLEN VALE. O THOU, too captious of each airy scheme, Fancy! thou dear delusive traitor, say, Are not thy charms the phantoms of a day, That mock possession, like a fleeting dream? Here could I spend, if such had been my lot, Quiet my life; nor should the shiv’ring poor Depart unfed, unaided, from my door. “Content is wealth,” the emblem of my cot. Here, by the brook, that gently babbles by, Should stand my garden; there the blushing rose And woodbine should their sweetest scent disclose. But ah! farewell these dreams;—my big full eye Swells with the bursting tear—I think, how few The road to real happiness pursue! SONNET VII. _Prospect of Sun-rise from_ SNOWDON.