And soon thy honor’d sire shall cease
  The captive’s lot to bear,
And we, my love, will soothe to peace
  His griefs, with filial care.

Then come for ever to my soul! 
  Amelia come, and prove! 
How calm our blissful years will roll,
  Along a life of love!—­

SONNET,

To Mrs. Bates.

Oh, thou whose melody the heart obeys,
Thou who can’st all its subject passions move,
Whose notes to heav’n the list’ning soul can raise,
Can thrill with pity, or can melt with love! 
Happy! whom nature lent this native charm;
Whose melting tones can shed with magic power,
A sweeter pleasure o’er the social hour,
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.

TO SENSIBILITY.

In Sensibility’s lov’d praise
  I tune my trembling reed;
And seek to deck her shrine with bays,
  On which my heart must bleed!

No cold exemption from her pain
  I ever wish’d to know;
Cheer’d with her transport, I sustain
  Without complaint her woe.

Above whate’er content can give,
  Above the charm of ease,
The restless hopes, and fears that live
  With her, have power to please.

Where but for her, were Friendship’s power
  To heal the wounded heart,
To shorten sorrow’s ling’ring hour,
  And bid its gloom depart?

’Tis she that lights the melting eye
  With looks to anguish dear;
She knows the price of ev’ry sigh,
  The value of a tear.

She prompts the tender marks of love
  Which words can scarce express;
The heart alone their force can prove,
  And feel how much they bless.

Of every finer bliss the source! 
  ’Tis she on love bestows
The softer grace, the boundless force
  Confiding passion knows;