SONNET XI.

Farewell my home, my home no longer now,
Witness of many a calm and happy day;
And thou fair eminence upon whose brow
Dwells the last sunshine of the evening ray.
Farewell! Mine eyes no longer shall pursue

The westering sun beyond the utmost height,
When slowly he forsakes the fields of light.
No more the freshness of the falling dew,
Cool and delightful here shall bathe my head,
As from this western window dear, I lean
Listening the while I watch the placid scene
The martins twittering underneath the shed.
Farewell my home! where many a day has past
In joys whose loved remembrance long shall last.

R,

SONNET XII.

To W. L. Esq. while he sung a Song to Purcell's Music.

While
my young cheek retains its healthful hues
And I have many friends who hold me dear;
L——— ! methinks, I would not often hear
Such melodies as thine, lest I should lose
All memory of the wrongs and sore distress,
For which my miserable brethren weep!
But should uncomforted misfortunes steep

My daily bread in tears and bitterness
And if at Death's dread moment I should lie

With no beloved face by my bed-side
To fix the last glance of my closing eye,

O God! such strains breath'd by my angel guide Would make me pass the cup of anguish by, Mix with the blest, nor know that I had died!

SONNET XIII.

Porlock, thy verdant vale so fair to sight,
Thy lofty hills with fern and furze so brown,
The waters that so musical roll down

Thy woody glens, the traveller with delight
Recalls to memory, and the channel grey
Circling its surges in thy level bay.

Porlock, I also shall forget thee not,

Here by the unwelcome summer rain confined,
And often shall hereafter call to mind

How here, a patient prisoner 'twas my lot
To wear the lonely, lingering close of day,
Making my Sonnet by the alehouse fire,
Whilst Idleness and Solitude inspire
Dull rhymes to pass the duller hours away.
August 9, 1799,

SONNET XIV.

To the RIVER EMONT, Cumberland.

By CHARLES LLOYD.

Sweet simple stream, the shallow waves that glide
In peaceful murmurs o'er thy stony bed,
Sweet simple stream, the gleams of even tide
That on thy banks their mellowing colours shed,
Befit the temper of my restless mind!

For while I hear thy waves and see the gleam Of latest eve, afar from human kind,

To linger here unknown I fondly dream!
I snatch my flute, and breathe a soften'd lay;
Then melting view it as an ONLY FRIEND!
And oft I wonder much that while so gay,

And all unthinking OTHERS Onward bend,
I here should sadly linger, and rejoice
To hear a lone stream, or the flute's soft voice

SONNET XV.

To LOCH LOMOND.

By CHARLES LLOYD.

Lomond thy rich and variegated scene,

Fantastic now,-now dignified, severe ; Thy tufted underwood, of darker green

Thine arrowy pines that mock the rolling year; Thy soft diversity of sweeping bays,

Fring'd with each shrub, and edg'd with tenderest turf,

Where as the attenuated north-gale plays,

The wild flowers mingle with the harmless surf;

Thy long protracted lake expansive now,

(Boldly diversified with wood-crown'd Isles) Imprison'd now by rocks, on whose stern brow,

Clad with cold heath the summer scarcely smiles

I welcome FEARFULLY! and hail in thee

The wildest shapings of sublimity.