“But why should sorrow cloud thy brow? 
That, dearest love, which fills thee now
Is fraught with joy and ecstasy. 
Prepared in one alone for thee,
That he within thine eye may find
Solace when fortune proves unkind,
And be newborn through many a kiss,
That he receives with inward bliss;
When’er he clasps thee to his breast. 
May he from all his toils find rest
When he in thy dear arms shall sink,
May he new life and vigour drink: 
Fresh joys of youth shalt thou obtain,
In merry jest rejoice again. 
With raillery and roguish spite,
Thou now shalt tease him, now delight. 
Thus Love will nevermore grow old,
Thus will the minstrel ne’er be cold!”

While he thus lives, in secret bless’d,
Above him in the clouds doth rest
An oak-wreath, verdant and sublime,
Placed on his brow in after-time;
While they are banish’d to the slough,
Who their great master disavow.

1776.
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Sonnets.

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Lovingly I’ll sing of love;
Ever comes she from above.
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The friendly meeting.

In spreading mantle to my chin conceald,

I trod the rocky path, so steep and grey,

Then to the wintry plain I bent my way
Uneasily, to flight my bosom steel’d.

But sudden was the newborn day reveal’d: 

A maiden came, in heavenly bright array,

Like the fair creatures of the poet’s lay
In realms of song.  My yearning heart was heal’d.

Yet turn’d I thence, till she had onward pass’d,

While closer still the folds to draw I tried,

  As though with heat self-kindled to grow warm;

But follow’d her.  She stood.  The die was cast!

No more within my mantle could I hide;

  I threw it off,—­she lay within mine arm.

1807-8.
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In A word.

Thus to be chain’d for ever, can I bear?

A very torment that, in truth, would be.

This very day my new resolve shall see.—­
I’ll not go near the lately-worshipp’d Fair.

Yet what excuse, my heart, can I prepare

In such a case, for not consulting thee?

But courage! while our sorrows utter we
In tones where love, grief, gladness have a share.

But see! the minstrel’s bidding to obey,

Its melody pours forth the sounding lyre,

  Yearning a sacrifice of love to bring.

Scarce wouldst thou think it—­ready is the lay;

Well, but what then?  Methought in the first fire

  We to her presence flew, that lay to sing.

1807Ä8.
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The maiden speaks.

How grave thou loookest, loved one! wherefore so?

Thy marble image seems a type of thee;

Like it, no sign of life thou giv’st to me;
Compared with thee, the stone appears to glow.