thought! has he not paid the price,
His taste for virtue?--Ah, the sensual stream
Has flow'd too long.--What charms can so entice,
What frequent guilt so pall, as not to shame
The rash belief, presumptuous and unwise,
That crimes habitual will forsake the Frame?--
[1]Thus, on the river's bank, in fabled lore,
The Rustic stands; sees the stream swiftly go,
And thinks he soon shall find the gulph below
A channel dry, which he may safe pass o'er.--
Vain hope!--it flows--and flows--and yet will flow,
Volume decreaseless, to the FINAL HOUR.

1:

"Rusticus exspectat dum defluit amnis: at ille
Labitur, et labetur in omne volubilis aevum." HORACE.

SONNET LXX.

TO A YOUNG LADY IN AFFLICTION,
WHO FANCIED SHE SHOULD NEVER MORE BE HAPPY.

Yes, thou shalt smile again!--Time always heals
In youth, the wounds of Sorrow.--O! survey
Yon now subsided Deep, thro' Night a prey
To warring Winds, and to their furious peals
Surging tumultuous!--yet, as in dismay,
The settling Billows tremble.--Morning steals
Grey on the rocks;--and soon, to pour the day
From the streak'd east, the radiant Orb unveils
In all his pride of light.--Thus shall the glow
Of beauty, health, and hope, by soft degrees
Spread o'er thy breast; disperse these storms of woe;
Wake, with sweet pleasure's sense, the wish to please,
Till from those eyes the wonted lustres flow,
Bright as the Sun on calm'd and crystal Seas.

SONNET LXXI.

TO THE POPPY.

While Summer Roses all their glory yield
To crown the Votary of Love and Joy,
Misfortune's Victim hails, with many a sigh,
Thee, scarlet POPPY of the pathless field,
Gaudy, yet wild and lone; no leaf to shield
Thy flaccid vest, that, as the gale blows high,
Flaps, and alternate folds around thy head.--
So stands in the long grass a love-craz'd Maid,
Smiling aghast; while stream to every wind
Her gairish ribbons, smear'd with dust and rain;
But brain-sick visions cheat her tortur'd mind,
And bring false peace. Thus, lulling grief and pain,
Kind dreams oblivious from thy juice proceed,
THOU FLIMSY, SHEWY, MELANCHOLY WEED.

SONNET LXXII.

WRITTEN IN THE RAINY SUMMER OF 1789.

Ah, hapless JUNE! circles yon lunar Sphere
Yet the dim Halo? whose cold powers ordain
Long o'er these vales shou'd sweep, in misty train,
The pale continu