in_,--
The clouds for joy in pearls weep down their showers;--
Sweet Spring, thou com'st--but ah! my pleasant hours,
And happy days, with thee come not again!
The sad memorials only of my pain
Do with thee come, which turn my sweets to sours.
Thou art the same which still thou wert before,
_Delicious, lusty, amiable, fair_,
But she whose breath embalmed thy wholesome air
Is gone--nor gold, nor gems can her restore,
Neglected virtue--seasons, go and come,
When thine, forgot, lie closed in a tomb.

SONNET.

Sweet bird, that sing'st away the early hours,
Of winters past, or coming, void of care,
Well pleased with delights which present are,--
Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers,
To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leavy bowers
Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare,
And what dear gifts on thee he did not spare,--
A stain to human sense in sin that lowers.
What soul can be so sick, which by thy songs
(Attir'd in sweetness) sweetly is not driven
Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and wrongs,
And lift a reverend eye and thought to heaven?
Sweet artless songster, thou my mind dost raise
To airs of spheres--yes, and to angels lays!

SLEEP.

Now while the Night her sable veil hath spread,
And silently her resty coach doth roll,
Rousing with her, from Thetis' azure bed,
Those starry nymphs which dance about the pole;
While Cynthia, in purest cypress clad.
The Latmian shepherd in a trance descries,
And, looking pale from height of all the skies,
She dyes her beauties in a blushing red;
While Sleep, in triumph, closed hath all eyes,
And birds and beasts a silence sweet do keep,
And Proteus' monstrous people in the deep,--
The winds and waves, hush'd up, to rest entice,--
I wake, I turn, I weep, oppress'd with pain,
Perplex'd in the meanders of my brain.

Sleep, Silence' child, sweet father of soft rest,
Prince, whose approach peace to all mortals brings,
Indifferent host to shepherds and to kings,
Sole comforter of minds which are oppress'd--
Lo! by thy charming rod, all breathing things
Lie slumb'ring, with forgetfulness possess'd,
And yet o'er me to spread thy drowsy wings
Thou spar'st, alas! who cannot be thy guest.
Since I am thine, O come,--but with that face
To inward light, which thou art wont to shew--
With feigned solace ease a true-felt woe;
Or if