thee languish all.
Come, that I may not hear the winds of Night,
Nor count the heavy eave-drops as they fall.

_Dec. 21st, 1782._

SONNET XLII.

Lo! the YEAR's FINAL DAY!--Nature performs
Its obsequies with darkness, wind, and rain;
But Man is jocund.--Hark! th' exultant strain
From towers and steeples drowns the wintry storms!
No village spire but to the cots and farms,
Right merrily, its scant and tuneless peal
Rings round!--Ah! joy ungrateful!--mirth insane!
Wherefore the senseless triumph, ye, who feel
This annual portion of brief Life the while
Depart for ever?--Brought it no dear hours
Of health and night-rest?--none that saw the smile
On lips belov'd?--O! with as gentle powers
Will the next pass?--Ye pause!--yet careless hear
Strike these last Clocks, that knell th' EXPIRING YEAR!

_Dec. 31st, 1782._

SONNET XLIII.

TO MAY, IN THE YEAR 1783.

My memory, long accustom'd to receive
In deep-engraven lines, each varying trait
Past Times and Seasons wore, can find no date
Thro' many years, O! MAY, when thou hadst leave,
As now, of the great SUN, serene to weave
Thy fragrant chaplets; in poetic state
To call the jocund Hours on thee to wait,
Bringing each day, at morn, at noon, at eve,
His mild illuminations.--Nymph, no more
Is thine to mourn beneath the scanty shade
Of half-blown foliage, shivering to deplore
Thy garlands immature, thy rites unpaid;
Meads dropt with [1]gold again to thee belong,
Soft gales, luxuriant bowers, and wood-land song.

1: Kingcups.

SONNET XLIV.

Rapt CONTEMPLATION, bring thy waking dreams
To this umbrageous vale at noon-tide hour,
While full of _thee_ seems every bending flower,
Whose petals tremble o'er the shadow'd streams!
Give thou HONORA's image, when her beams,
Youth, beauty, kindness, shone;--what time she wore
That smile, of gentle, yet resistless power
To sooth each painful Passion's wild extremes.
Here shall no empty, vain Intruder chase,
With idle converse, thy enchantment warm,
That brings, in all its interest, all its grace,
The dear, persuasive, visionary Form.
Can real Life a rival blessing boast
When thou canst thus restore HONORA early lost?

SONNET XLV.

[1]From Possibility's dim chaos sprung,
High o'er its gloom the Aerostatic Power
Arose!--Exulti