Sonnet XLIII

My memory, long accustom'd to receive

In deep-engraven lines, each varying trait

Past Times and Seasons wore, can find no date

Thro' many years, O! May, when thou hadst leave,

As now, of the great Sun, serene to weave

Thy fragrant chaplets; in poetic state

To call the jocund Hours on thee to wait,

Bringing each day, at morn, at noon, at eve,

His mild illuminations.—Nymph, no more

Is thine to mourn beneath the scanty shade

Of half-blown foliage, shivering to deplore

Thy garlands immature, thy rites unpaid;

Meads dropt with gold again to thee belong,

Soft gales, luxuriant bowers, and wood-land song.

Sonnet : XLIV

Rapt Contemplation, bring thy waking dreams

To this umbrageous vale at noon-tide hour,

While full of thee seems every bending flower,

Whose petals tremble o'er the shadow'd streams!

Give thou Honora's image, when her beams,

Youth, beauty, kindness, shone;—what time she wore

That smile, of gentle, yet resistless power

To sooth each painful Passion's wild extremes.

Here shall no empty, vain Intruder chase,

With idle converse, thy enchantment warm,

That brings, in all its interest, all its grace,

The dear, persuasive, visionary Form.

Can real Life a rival blessing boast

When thou canst thus restore Honora early lost?