SONNET.--SPRING.

Sweet Spring, thou com'st with all thy goodly train,--
Thy head with flame, thy mantle bright with flowers:
_The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plain_,--
The clouds for joy in pearls weep down their showers;--
Sweet Spring, thou com'st--but ah! my pleasant hours,
And happy days, with thee come not again!
The sad memorials only of my pain
Do with thee come, which turn my sweets to sours.
Thou art the same which still thou wert before,
_Delicious, lusty, amiable, fair_,
But she whose breath embalmed thy wholesome air
Is gone--nor gold, nor gems can her restore,
Neglected virtue--seasons, go and come,
When thine, forgot, lie closed in a tomb.


SONNET.

Sweet bird, that sing'st away the early hours,
Of winters past, or coming, void of care,
Well pleased with delights which present are,--
Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers,
To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leavy bowers
Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare,
And what dear gifts on thee he did not spare,--
A stain to human sense in sin that lowers.