And so, too, with the wretched sons of clay,
When four and three-lined verses they compil’d.

But punishment pursues the scoffer straight,

As if by serpent-torch of furies led

  From bill to vale, from land to sea to fly.

I hear the genie’s laughter at my fate;

Yet do I find all power of thinking fled

  In sonnet-rage and love’s fierce ecstasy.

1807-8.
-----
The Christmas-box.

This box, mine own sweet darling, thou wilt find

With many a varied sweetmeat’s form supplied;

The fruits are they of holy Christmas tide,
But baked indeed, for children’s use design’d.

I’d fain, in speeches sweet with skill combin’d,

Poetic sweetmeats for the feast provide;

But why in such frivolities confide? 
Perish the thought, with flattery to blind!

One sweet thing there is still, that from within,

Within us speaks,—­that may be felt afar;

  This may be wafted o’er to thee alone.

If thou a recollection fond canst win,

As if with pleasure gleam’d each well-known star,

  The smallest gift thou never wilt disown.

1807.
-----
The warning.

When sounds the trumpet at the Judgment Day,

And when forever all things earthly die,

We must a full and true account supply
Of ev’ry useless word we dropp’d in play.

But what effect will all the words convey

Wherein with eager zeal and lovingly,

That I might win thy favour, labour’d I,
If on thine ear alone they die away?

Therefore, sweet love, thy conscience bear in mind,

Remember well how long thou hast delay’d,

  So that the world such sufferings may not know.

If I must reckon, and excuses find

For all things useless I to thee have said,

  To a full year the Judgment Day will grow

1807Ä8.
-----
The epochs.

On Petrarch’s heart, all other days before,

In flaming letters written, was impress d

Good Friday.  And on mine, be it confess’d,
Is this year’s advent, as it passeth o’er.

I do not now begin,—­I still adore

Her whom I early cherish’d in my breast;,

Then once again with prudence dispossess’d,
And to whose heart I’m driven back once more.

The love of Petrarch, that all-glorious love,

Was unrequited, and, alas, full sad;

  One long Good Friday ’twas, one heartache drear

But may my mistress’ Advent ever prove,

With its palm-jubilee, so sweet and glad,

  One endless Mayday, through the livelong year!

1807.
-----
The doubters and the lovers.

The doubters.