The breast to softness sooth, to virtue warm--But
yet more happy! that thy life as clear
From discord, as thy perfect cadence flows;
That tun'd to sympathy, thy faithful tear,
In mild accordance falls for others woes;
That all the tender, pure affections bind
In chains of harmony, thy willing mind!



SONNET

To TWILIGHT.


Meek Twilight! soften the declining day,
And bring the hour my pensive spirit loves;
When, o'er the mountain flow descends the ray
That gives to silence the deserted groves.
Ah, let the happy court the morning still,
When, in her blooming loveliness array'd,
She bids fresh beauty light the vale, or hill,
And rapture warble in the vocal shade.
Sweet is the odour of the morning's flower,
And rich in melody her accents rise;
Yet dearer to my soul the shadowy hour,
At which her blossoms close, her music dies--
For then, while languid nature droops her head,
She wakes the tear 'tis luxury to shed.