ORIGINAL SONNETS ON VARIOUS SUBJECTS; AND ODES PARAPHRASED FROM HORACE:

BY ANNA SEWARD.

“Come, bright Imagination come, relume Thy orient lamp.”

See Sonnet 1

LONDON:

PRINTED FOR G. SAEL, NO. 192, STRAND; AND SOLD BY MR. SWINNEY, BIRMINGHAM, AND MR. MORGAN, LICHFIELD.

1799. [Pg iii]

PREFACE.

Whatever other excellence may be wanting in the ensuing Poems, they are, with only nine exceptions out of the hundred, strictly Sonnets. Those nine vary only from the rules of the legitimate Sonnet in that they rhime three, instead of four times in the first part. The pause is in them, as in the rest, variously placed through the course of the verses; and thus they bear no more resemblance than their associates, to those minute Elegies of twelve alternate rhimes, closing with a couplet, which assume the name of Sonnet, without any other resemblance to that order of Verse, except their limitation to fourteen lines. I never found the quadruple rhimes injurious to the general expression of the sense, but in the excepted instances. When it is considered how few they are in so large a number, I flatter myself the idea will vanish that our language is not capable of doing justice to the regular Sonnet.

From the Supplement to the Gentleman's Magazine for 1786, I shall insert Mr. White's definition of the nature and perfection [Pg iv] of this species of Verse, because I think it explains them with justness and precision.

“Little Elegies, consisting of four stanzas and a couplet, are no more Sonnets than they are Epic Poems. The Sonnet is of a particular and arbitrary construction; it partakes of the nature of Blank Verse, by the lines running into each other at proper intervals. Each line of the first eight, rhimes four times, and the order in which those rhimes should fall is decisive. For the ensuing six there is more licence; they may, or may not, at pleasure, close with a couplet.

“Of Milton's English Sonnets, only that to Oliver Cromwell ends with a couplet, but the single instance is a sufficient precedent; however, in three out of his five Italian ones, the concluding lines rhime to each other.

“The style of the Sonnet should be nervous, and, where the subject will with propriety bear elevation, sublime; with which, simplicity of language is by no means incompatible. If the subject is familiar and domestic, the style should, though affectionate, be nervous; though plain, be energetic. The great models of perfection, for the sublime and domestic Sonnet, are those of Milton's, ‘To the Soldier to spare his Dwelling-place,’ and ‘To Mr. Laurence.’ [Pg v]

“The Sonnet is certainly the most difficult species of poetic composition; but difficulty, well subdued, is excellence. Mrs. Smith says she has been told that the regular Sonnet suits not the nature or genius of our language. Surely this assertion cannot be demonstrated, and therefore was not worth attention.

“Out of eighteen English Sonnets, written by Milton, four are bad. The rest, though they are not free from certain hardnesses, have a pathos and greatness in their simplicity, sufficient to endear the legitimate Sonnet to every Reader of just taste. They possess a characteristic grace, which can never belong to three elegiac stanzas, closing with a couplet.”

I have pleasure in quoting the preceding Dissertation on the Sonnet, conscious that there is no order of Verse, upon which so much erroneous opinion has gone forth, and of whose beauties the merely common Reader is so insensible. But when the Author of this just Treatise says of the assertion, that the legitimate Sonnet suits not our language, “its truth cannot be demonstrated,” he should perhaps rather have observed, that its fallacy is proved by the great number of beautiful legitimate Sonnets, which adorn our National Poetry, not only by Milton, but by many of our modern Poets. [Pg vi]

Of the four of Milton's, justly disapproved by Mr. White, there is one evidently a burlesque, written in sport. It begins,

“A book was writ of late, call'd Tetrachordon.”

Doctor Johnson has the disingenuousness, in his Folio Dictionary, under the word Sonnet, to cite that Sonnet at full length, as a specimen of Milton's style in this kind of Poetry. Johnson disliked Sonnets, and he equally disliked Blank Verse, and Odes. It is in vain to combat the prejudice of splenetic aversion. The Sonnet is an highly valuable species of Verse; the best vehicle for a single detached thought, an elevated, or a tender sentiment, and for a succinct description. The compositions of that order now before the Reader, ensued from time to time, as various circumstances impressed the heart, or the imagination of their Author, and as the aweful, or lovely scenes of Nature, arrested, or allured her eye. [Pg vii]

TO MISS SEWARD,

ON READING HER CENTENARY OF SONNETS.

Dear are the forceful energies of Song, For they do swell the spring-tide of the heart With rosier currents, and impel along The life-blood freely:—O! they can impart Raptures ne'er dreamt of by the sordid throng Who barter human feeling at the mart Of pamper'd selfishness, and thus do wrong Imperial Nature of her prime desert.— Seward! thy strains, beyond the critic-praise Which may to arduous skill its meed assign, Can the pure sympathies of spirit raise To bright Imagination's throne divine; And proudly triumph, with a generous strife, O'er all the “flat realities of life.”

High Street, Marybone, Feb. 1, 1799.

T. PARK. [Pg ix]

VERSES

BY THE REV. H. F. CAREY,

ON READING THE FOLLOWING PARAPHRASES.

Hear, honor'd Flaccus, from the vocal shades Where with gay Prior, and thy [1]Teian Peer Thou wanderest thro' the amaranthine glades, While social joys the devious walk endear!

Or whether in the bright Elysian bowers, Where the tall vine its lavish mantle spreads, Thou crown'st the goblet with unfading flowers, Sooth'd by the murmuring stream, that labors thro' the meads.

Hear, happy Bard!—to wake thy silent lyre Our British Muse, our charming Seward, deigns!— With more harmonious tones, more sportive fire Beneath her hand arise the potent strains.

Then, as thou hear'st the sweet Enthusiast, own Thy fancy's various florets look'd less gay When kiss'd by bright Italia's ardent sun, Than now their hues expand in Albion's milder ray!

H. F. CAREY.

1: Anacreon. [Pg 1]

SONNETS. [Pg 3]

SONNET I.

When Life's realities the Soul perceives Vain, dull, perchance corrosive, if she glows With rising energy, and open throws The golden gates of Genius, she achieves His fairy clime delighted, and receives In those gay paths, deck'd with the thornless rose, Blest compensation.—Lo! with alter'd brows Lours the false World, and the fine Spirit grieves; No more young Hope tints with her light and bloom The darkening Scene.—Then to ourselves we say, Come, bright Imagination, come! relume Thy orient lamp; with recompensing ray Shine on the Mind, and pierce its gathering gloom With all the fires of intellectual Day! [Pg 4]

SONNET II.

The Future, and its gifts, alone we prize, Few joys the Present brings, and those alloy'd; Th' expected fulness leaves an aching void; But Hope stands by, and lifts her sunny eyes That gild the days to come.—She still relies The Phantom Happiness not thus shall glide Always from life.—Alas!—yet ill betide Austere Experience, when she coldly tries In distant roses to discern the thorn! Ah! is it wise to anticipate our pain? Arriv'd, it then is soon enough to mourn. Nor call the dear Consoler false and vain, When yet again, shining through april-tears, Those fair enlight'ning eyes beam on advancing Years. [Pg 5]

SONNET III.

WRITTEN AT BUXTON IN A RAINY SEASON.

From these wild heights, where oft the mists descend In rains, that shroud the sun, and chill the gale, Each transient, gleaming interval we hail, And rove the naked vallies, and extend Our gaze around, where yon vast mountains blend With billowy clouds, that o'er their summits sail; Pondering, how little Nature's charms befriend The barren scene, monotonous, and pale. Yet solemn when the darkening shadows fleet Successive o'er the wide and silent hills, Gilded by watry sun-beams, then we meet Peculiar pomp of vision. Fancy thrills, And owns there is no scene so rude and bare, But Nature sheds or grace or grandeur there. [Pg 6]

SONNET IV.

TO HONORA SNEYD[1], WHOSE HEALTH WAS ALWAYS BEST IN WINTER.

And now the youthful, gay, capricious Spring, Piercing her showery clouds with crystal light, And with their hues reflected streaking bright Her radiant bow, bids all her Warblers sing; The Lark, shrill caroling on soaring wing; The lonely Thrush, in brake, with blossoms white, That tunes his pipe so loud; while, from the sight Coy bending their dropt heads, young Cowslips fling Rich perfume o'er the fields.—It is the prime Of Hours that Beauty robes:—yet all they gild, Cheer, and delight in this their fragrant time, For thy dear sake, to me less pleasure yield Than, veil'd in sleet, and rain, and hoary rime, Dim Winter's naked hedge and plashy field.

May 1770.

1: Afterwards Mrs. Edgeworth. [Pg 7]

SONNET V.

TO A FRIEND, WHO THINKS SENSIBILITY A MISFORTUNE.

Ah, thankless! canst thou envy him who gains The Stoic's cold and indurate repose? Thou! with thy lively sense of bliss and woes!— From a false balance of life's joys and pains Thou deem'st him happy.—Plac'd 'mid fair domains, Where full the river down the valley flows, As wisely might'st thou wish thy home had rose On the parch'd surface of unwater'd plains, For that, when long the heavy rain descends, Bursts over guardian banks their whelming tide!— Seldom the wild and wasteful Flood extends, But, spreading plenty, verdure, beauty wide, The cool translucent Stream perpetual bends, And laughs the Vale as the bright waters glide. [Pg 8]

SONNET VI.

WRITTEN AT LICHFIELD, IN AN EASTERN APARTMENT OF THE BISHOP'S PALACE, WHICH COMMANDS A VIEW OF STOW VALLEY.

In this chill morning of a wintry Spring I look into the gloom'd and rainy vale; The sullen clouds, the stormy winds assail, Lour on the fields, and with impetuous wing Disturb the lake:—but Love and Memory cling To their known scene, in this cold influence pale; Yet priz'd, as when it bloom'd in Summer's gale, Ting'd by his setting sun.—When Sorrows fling, Or slow Disease, thus, o'er some beauteous Form Their shadowy languors, Form, devoutly dear As thine to me, Honora, with more warm And anxious gaze the eyes of Love sincere Bend on the charms, dim in their tintless snow, Than when with health's vermilion hues they glow. [Pg 9]

SONNET VII.

By Derwent's rapid stream as oft I stray'd, With Infancy's light step and glances wild, And saw vast rocks, on steepy mountains pil'd, Frown o'er th' umbrageous glen; or pleas'd survey'd The cloudy moonshine in the shadowy glade, Romantic Nature to th' enthusiast Child Grew dearer far than when serene she smil'd, In uncontrasted loveliness array'd. But O! in every Scene, with sacred sway, Her graces fire me; from the bloom that spreads Resplendent in the lucid morn of May, To the green light the little Glow-worm sheds On mossy banks, when midnight glooms prevail, And softest Silence broods o'er all the dale. [Pg 10]

SONNET VIII.

TRANSLATION.

Short is the time the oldest Being lives, Nor has Longevity one hour to waste; Life's duties are proportion'd to the haste With which it fleets away;—each day receives Its task, that if neglected, surely gives The morrow double toil.—Ye, who have pass'd In idle sport the days that fled so fast, Days, that nor Grief recalls, nor Care retrieves, At length be wise, and think, that of the part Remaining in that vital period given, How short the date, and at the prospect start, Ere to the extremest verge your steps be driv'n! Nor let a moment unimprov'd depart, But view it as the latest trust of Heav'n! [Pg 11]

SONNET IX.

Seek not, my Lesbia, the sequester'd dale, Or bear thou to its shades a tranquil heart; Since rankles most in solitude the smart Of injur'd charms and talents, when they fail To meet their due regard;—nor e'en prevail Where most they wish to please:—Yet, since thy part Is large in Life's chief blessings, why desert Sullen the world?—Alas! how many wail Dire loss of the best comforts Heaven can grant! While they the bitter tear in secret pour, Smote by the death of Friends, Disease, or Want, Slight wrongs if thy self-valuing soul deplore, Thou but resemblest, in thy lonely haunt, Narcissus pining on the watry shore. [Pg 12]

SONNET X.

TO HONORA SNEYD.

Honora, shou'd that cruel time arrive When 'gainst my truth thou should'st my errors poize, Scorning remembrance of our vanish'd joys; When for the love-warm looks, in which I live, But cold respect must greet me, that shall give No tender glance, no kind regretful sighs; When thou shalt pass me with averted eyes, Feigning thou see'st me not, to sting, and grieve, And sicken my sad heart, I cou'd not bear Such dire eclipse of thy soul-cheering rays; I cou'd not learn my struggling heart to tear From thy lov'd form, that thro' my memory strays; Nor in the pale horizon of Despair Endure the wintry and the darken'd days.

April 1773. [Pg 13]

SONNET XI.

How sweet to rove, from summer sun-beams veil'd, In gloomy dingles; or to trace the tide Of wandering brooks, their pebbly beds that chide; To feel the west-wind cool refreshment yield, That comes soft creeping o'er the flowery field, And shadow'd waters; in whose bushy side The Mountain-Bees their fragrant treasure hide Murmuring; and sings the lonely Thrush conceal'd!— Then, Ceremony, in thy gilded halls, Where forc'd and frivolous the themes arise, With bow and smile unmeaning, O! how palls At thee, and thine, my sense!—how oft it sighs For leisure, wood-lanes, dells, and water-falls; And feels th' untemper'd heat of sultry skies! [Pg 14]

SONNET XII.

Chill'd by unkind Honora's alter'd eye, “Why droops my heart with fruitless woes forlorn,” Thankless for much of good?—what thousands, born To ceaseless toil beneath this wintry sky, Or to brave deathful Oceans surging high, Or fell Disease's fever'd rage to mourn, How blest to them wou'd seem my destiny! How dear the comforts my rash sorrows scorn!— Affection is repaid by causeless hate! A plighted love is chang'd to cold disdain! Yet suffer not thy wrongs to shroud thy fate, But turn, my Soul, to blessings which remain; And let this truth the wise resolve create, The Heart estranged no anguish can regain.

July 1773. [Pg 15]

SONNET XIII.

Thou child of Night, and Silence, balmy Sleep, Shed thy soft poppies on my aching brow! And charm to rest the thoughts of whence, or how Vanish'd that priz'd Affection, wont to keep Each grief of mine from rankling into woe. Then stern Misfortune from her bended bow Loos'd the dire strings;—and Care, and anxious Dread From my cheer'd heart, on sullen pinion, fled. But now, the spell dissolv'd, th' Enchantress gone, Ceaseless those cruel Fiends infest my day, And sunny hours but light them to their prey. Then welcome Midnight shades, when thy wish'd boon May in oblivious dews my eye-lids steep, Thou Child of Night, and Silence, balmy Sleep!

July 1773. [Pg 16]

SONNET XIV.

Ingratitude, how deadly is thy smart Proceeding from the Form we fondly love! How light, compared, all other sorrows prove! Thou shed'st a Night of Woe, from whence depart The gentle beams of Patience, that the heart 'Mid lesser ills, illume.—Thy Victims rove Unquiet as the Ghost that haunts the Grove Where Murder spilt the life-blood.—O! thy dart Kills more than Life,—e'en all that makes Life dear; Till we “the sensible of pain” wou'd change For Phrenzy, that defies the bitter tear; Or wish, in kindred callousness, to range Where moon-ey'd Idiocy, with fallen lip, Drags the loose knee, and intermitting step.

July 1773. [Pg 17]

SONNET XV.

WRITTEN ON RISING GROUND NEAR LICHFIELD.

The evening shines in May's luxuriant pride, And all the sunny hills at distance glow, And all the brooks, that thro' the valley flow, Seem liquid gold.—O! had my fate denied Leisure, and power to taste the sweets that glide Thro' waken'd minds, as the soft seasons go On their still varying progress, for the woe My heart has felt, what balm had been supplied? But where great Nature smiles, as here she smiles, 'Mid verdant vales, and gently swelling hills, And glassy lakes, and mazy, murmuring rills, And narrow wood-wild lanes, her spell beguiles Th' impatient sighs of Grief, and reconciles Poetic Minds to Life, with all her ills.

May 1774. [Pg 18]

SONNET XVI.

TRANSLATED FROM BOILEAU.

Apollo, at his crowded altars, tir'd Of Votaries, who for trite ideas thrown Into loose verse, assume, in lofty tone, The Poet's name, untaught, and uninspir'd, Indignant struck the Lyre.—Straight it acquir'd New powers, and complicate. Then first was known The rigorous Sonnet, to be fram'd alone By duteous Bards, or by just Taste admir'd.— Go, energetic Sonnet, go, he cried, And be the test of skill!—For rhymes that flow Regardless of thy rules, their destin'd guide, Yet take thy name, ah! let the boasters know That with strict sway my jealous laws preside, While I no wreaths on rebel verse bestow. [Pg 19]

SONNET XVII.

Ah! why have I indulg'd my dazzled sight With scenes in Hope's delusive mirror shown? Scenes, that too seldom human Life has known In kind accomplishment;—but O! how bright The rays, that gilded them with varied light Alternate! oft swift flashing on the boon That might at Fame's immortal shrine be won; Then shining soft on tender Love's delight.— Now, with stern hand, Fate draws the sable veil O'er the frail glass!—Hope, as she turns away, The darken'd crystal drops.——Heavy and pale, Rain-pouring clouds quench all the darts of day; Low mourns the wind along the gloomy dale, And tolls the Death-bell in the pausing gale. [Pg 20]

SONNET XVIII.

AN EVENING IN NOVEMBER, WHICH HAD BEEN STORMY, GRADUALLY CLEARING UP, IN A MOUNTAINOUS COUNTRY.

Ceas'd is the rain; but heavy drops yet fall From the drench'd roof;—yet murmurs the sunk wind Round the dim hills; can yet a passage find Whistling thro' yon cleft rock, and ruin'd wall. The swoln and angry torrents heard, appal, Tho' distant.—A few stars, emerging kind, Shed their green, trembling beams.—With lustre small, The moon, her swiftly-passing clouds behind, Glides o'er that shaded hill.—Now blasts remove The shadowing clouds, and on the mountain's brow, Full-orb'd, she shines.—Half sunk within its cove Heaves the lone boat, with gulphing sound;—and lo! Bright rolls the settling lake, and brimming rove The vale's blue rills, and glitter as they flow. [Pg 21]

SONNET XIX.

TO ——.

Farewell, false Friend!—our scenes of kindness close! To cordial looks, to sunny smiles farewell! To sweet consolings, that can grief expel, And every joy soft sympathy bestows! For alter'd looks, where truth no longer glows, Thou hast prepar'd my heart;—and it was well To bid thy pen th' unlook'd for story tell, Falsehood avow'd, that shame, nor sorrow knows.— O! when we meet,—(to meet we're destin'd, try To avoid it as thou may'st) on either brow, Nor in the stealing consciousness of eye, Be seen the slightest trace of what, or how We once were to each other;—nor one sigh Flatter with weak regret a broken vow! [Pg 22]

SONNET XX.

ON READING A DESCRIPTION OF POPE's GARDENS AT TWICKENHAM.

Ah! might I range each hallow'd bower and glade Musæus cultur'd, many a raptur'd sigh Wou'd that dear, local consciousness supply Beneath his willow, in the grotto's shade, Whose roof his hand with ores and shells inlaid. How sweet to watch, with reverential eye, Thro' the sparr'd arch, the streams he oft survey'd, Thine, blue Thamésis, gently wandering by! This is the Poet's triumph, and it towers O'er Life's pale ills, his consciousness of powers That lift his memory from Oblivion's gloom, Secure a train of these heart-thrilling hours By his idea deck'd in rapture's bloom, For Spirits rightly touch'd, thro' ages yet to come. [Pg 23]

SONNET XXI.