DACRE.

      The eyes, the arms, the hands, the feet, the face,
    Which made my thoughts and words so warm and wild,
    That I was almost from myself exiled,
    And render’d strange to all the human race;
    The lucid locks that curl’d in golden grace,
    The lightening beam that, when my angel smiled,
    Diffused o’er earth an Eden heavenly mild;
    What are they now?  Dust, lifeless dust, alas! 
    And I live on, a melancholy slave,
    Toss’d by the tempest in a shatter’d bark,
    Reft of the lovely light that cheer’d the wave. 
    The flame of genius, too, extinct and dark,
    Here let my lays of love conclusion have;
    Mute be the lyre:  tears best my sorrows mark.

    MOREHEAD.

      Those eyes whose living lustre shed the heat
    Of bright meridian day; the heavenly mould
    Of that angelic form; the hands, the feet,
    The taper arms, the crisped locks of gold;
    Charms that the sweets of paradise enfold;
    The radiant lightning of her angel-smile,
    And every grace that could the sense beguile
    Are now a pile of ashes, deadly cold! 
    And yet I bear to drag this cumbrous chain,
    That weighs my soul to earth—­to bliss or pain
    Alike insensible:—­her anchor lost,
    The frail dismantled bark, all tempest-toss’d,
    Surveys no port of comfort—­closed the scene
    Of life’s delusive joys;—­and dry the Muse’s vein.

    WOODHOUSELEE.

      Those eyes, sweet subject of my rapturous strain! 
    The arms, the hands, the feet, that lovely face,
    By which I from myself divided was,
    And parted from the vulgar and the vain;
    Those crisped locks, pure gold unknown to stain! 
    Of that angelic smile the lightening grace,
    Which wont to make this earth a heavenly place! 
    Dissolved to senseless ashes now remain! 
    And yet I live, to endless grief a prey,
    ’Reft of that star, my loved, my certain guide,
    Disarm’d my bark, while tempests round me blow! 
    Stop, then, my verse—­dry is the fountain’s tide. 
    That fed my genius!  Cease, my amorous lay! 
    Changed is my lyre, attuned to endless woe!

    CHARLEMONT.

SONNET XXV.

S’ io avessi pensato che si care.

HIS POEMS WERE WRITTEN ONLY TO SOOTHE HIS OWN GRIEF:  OTHERWISE HE WOULD HAVE LABOURED TO MAKE THEM MORE DESERVING OF THE FAME THEY HAVE ACQUIRED.

      Had I e’er thought that to the world so dear
    The echo of my sighs would be in rhyme,
    I would have made them in my sorrow’s prime
    Rarer in style, in number more appear. 
    Since she is dead my muse who prompted here,
    First in my thoughts and feelings at all time,
    All power is lost of tender or sublime
    My rough dark verse to render