SONNET.

ON THE APPROACH OF THE GOUT.

"Tis strange that thou shouldst leave the downy bed, The Turkey carpet, and the soft settee,

Shouldst leave the board with choicest dainties spread, To fix thy odious residence with me.

'Tis strange that thou, attached to plenteous case, Shouldst leave those dwellings for a roof like mine, Where plainest meals keen appetites appease,

And where thou wilt not find one drop of wine. 'Tis passing strange! yet shouldst thou persevere, And rack these bones with agonizing pangs,

Firm as a rock thy tortures will I bear,

And teach the affluent how to blunt thy fangs. Yes! should thou visit me, capricious Gout,

Hard fare shall be thy lot; by Jove, I'll starve thee

out!

MR. RUSHTON.

SONNET.

FROM THE SEVENTH BOOK OF VIRGIL's ÆNEID.

BY C. LEFTLY; ESQ.

We leave the port-through whispering waves we go!
Soft breathes the wind upon the silver tide;
Beneath the Moon's bright lamp the waters glow,
Near Circe's shore our silent vessels glide.
Torches of cedar give the Enchantress light,
The misty woods return her solemn song.
Through the fine web, heard all the long lone night,
Shrill sounds her shuttle, as it flies along.
Thence sighs we hear, and many a dismal groan,
The clank of chains, the lion's lengthening roar;
Wolves yell aloud, the bear and bristly boar
Growl from their stalls, and swell the midnight moan.
All mad with potent drink, unseemly guests,
Transformed from men, they feel and act like beasts.

VOL. I

SONNET.

WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT.

BY MR. R. A. DAVENPORT.

YE disembodied spirits, who have past
Of this dim earth the feverish turmoil;
If, not in inner-heaven inthron'd-awhile
Ye wander, viewless, through the starry vast,
And pitying, see by changeful Passion's blast
Rude-tempested, or wrung by force or guile,
The feeble dwellers on this thorny soil,
Till friendly Death the conflict end at last;
Tell, if ye may, what cares, what pleasures wait
The ethereal essence from encumbering dust
Releas'd, to seek on high its destin❜d state:

Vain wish! ye hear not, or the Ever-just
Forbids the wonderous story to relate;

Peace then, my soul! adore and humbly trust!

SONNET.

TO GEORGE ROMNEY, ESQ.

WRITTEN AT EARTHAM IN 1792.

BY THE LATE W. COWPER, ESQ

ROMNEY! expert infallibly to trace

On chart or canvas, not the form alone And semblance; but, however faintly shown, The mind's impression too, on every face, With strokes that Time ought never to erase! Thou hast so penciled mine that, tho' I own The subject worthless, I have never known The artist shining with superior grace: But this I mark-that symptom none of woe, In thine incomparable work appear : Well! I am satisfied it should be so,

Since on maturer thought the cause is clear→→ For in my looks what sorrow couldst thou see, While I was Hayley's guest, and sat to thee?

SONNETS.

BY MRS. WEST.

I.

On dreaming frequently of my deceased Mother.

'Tis she! the grave has given her up! her shroud Is fallen by miracle! again I trace

Her look benign, I see the winning grace Which erst was her's, ere tedious sickness bow'd Her placid spirit, and with pensive cloud

O'er-cast the sweet expression of her face: See! how she woos to her rever'd embrace The child which of her tenderness was proud. Grey dawns the morn, the dear illusion flies,

I wake, but wake its absence to deplore';
Anxious at duty's daily call I rise,

Blest by a Mother's daily prayers no more.
Oh Sleep! still kindly to my closing eyes
The vision of my lost delights restore.