SONNET, Laid in the drawer of the thatched shed by the brook at Plas Nwydd, the Villa of the Right Hon, Lady ELEANOR BUTLER, and Miss PONSONBY, in Llangollen Vale. WRITTEN IN AUTUMN 1799. STRANGER, when o'er yon slant, warm field no cloud Steals, at its foot, the verge of a wild brook, In tangled dell, where sun-beams never look, Press this screen'd seat, and mark the waters crowd Close to the cliff down their steep channel rude; Leaping o'er rugged stones, that aye provoke ́ Foam and hoarse murmur; while the pendant oak Frowns o'er the little, clamorous, lonely flood.Impetuous Deva's honours yield to thine, Dear brook, for O! thy scanty billows lave Friendship and Fancy's consecrated shrine; And thou may'st tell the stream of mightier wave, Here oft they muse the noontide hours away, Who gild thy vale with intellectual ray. SPEECH OF THE NYMPH OF THAT BROOK, WHICH, AFTER HEAVY RAIN, BECOMES A DEEP, VIOLENT, AND FORMIDABLE TORRENT. Lo! down yon steep of vales proud Deva borne, Rolls the hoarse treasures of her flashing urn! Yet bears my stream, as o'er the rocks it raves, Not tribute, but defiance to her waves. SONNET.* GAY trips my nymph along the green retreat, With frolic airy steps; and where they go Fresh florets rise in twice their wonted glow; Yellower the sun-beams o'er the meadows fleet, Or fancies fond possess me. Her light feet, Glancing along, no other traces show ; They bend not the young grass, that springs to meet The falling arch of April's showery bow; And if the downy blow-ball flies its stalk, * This Sonnet is in the style of our elder poets, with whom the hyperbole was a favourite poetic figure. 1. 11. Downy blow-ball-Ben Jonson's name for the seedvessels of the Dandelion. A MEDITATION. IN every season, every change of life, To give that zest which she can only give, With all her train of ills;-th' unerring grasp Cordial and sweet, of that associate mild, Who could support? Not e'en the happiest lot Of bloomy Summer, shed ideal light, Which more than crowns their beauty. Thou canst lift With rosy hand, the veils of time, and pledge Where Night and Winter never come;-nor pain, |