SONNET I. Content, as random Fancies might inspire, BOWLES. My heart has thanked thee, BowLES! for those soft strains Whose sadness soothes me, like the murmuring For hence not callous to the mourner's pains A mingled charm, such as the pang consigned As the great SPIRIT erst with plastic sweep SONNET II. As late I lay in slumber's shadowy vale, She spake! not sadder moans the autumnal gale— SONNET III. THOUGH roused by that dark Vizir RIOT rude SONNET IV. WHEN British Freedom for an happier land Of unmatched eloquence. Therefore thy name the doom Of Nature bids thee die, beyond the tomb SONNET V. It was some Spirit, SHERIDAN! that breathed Swell the full tones! And now thine eye-beams dance As erst that elder Fiend beneath great Michael's sword. |