Sonnett

Whilste all on fyre victorius Rome blazed
wastinge her stately frontes to pale asshes
And that the wretched Romaynes amasede
with clamorous showtes wayled their losses.
Nero insatiable off Crueltye
gasinge from hye theratt laughedd for Joye
And to recorde his hatefull Tyrannye
tryumphantlye sange the burnynge off Troye
Even so the mercyleste this day that lyvethe
to see my harte flamynge fyndes Contentment

A TALE.

B Y H ARRIET F ALCONAR .

When blooming spring, in rosy grace attir'd,
Had chas'd the wintry blast and deck'd the May,
As slow retiring eve with parting beams
Cast o'er the antique spires a crimson light,
Where rolls Sabrina her smooth stream along,
On whose sweet banks gay Flora's gaudy pride
Persum'd with odours mild the passing breeze:
On the green marge a tow'ring grove appears,
Within whose maze the woodlark's warbled note,

BY Maria F ALCONAR .

S OFT deity of peace, whose hand divine
First taught the muse to chear my infant hours;
Oh! let me, pensive, sing what sweets are thine,
Though forn, reluctant, from thy vernal bow'rs!

The sighing gales that od'rous balms distil,
The vocal music issuing from the tree;
The lowly cottage, or the shelving hill,
Are joys that fancy only gives to me.

So the sad exile from his native shore,

Iff all my thoughtes were open unto yow
And that my harte by wordes could shewe my case
Or off my griefes yow coulde take perfecte veywe
Or yf my fayth weare payntede in my face
Iff all my syghes my teares and lynes of truthe
Coulde well descrybe a faithfull lovers plight
Then woulde I hope to move the Rocks to ruthe
And thinke withall they dyd but doo me ryght
And then shoulde love that onely knowes my cares
Seeke meanes lykewise to wreste your Careles mynde
And saye for me which els no creature dares

BY H ARRIET F ALCONAR .

How fair the prospect opens to the eye,
Where Flora's pencil marks the gay dress'd ground;
Where art and nature, emulative, vie
To scatter rival beauties all around.

What vivid colours flush yon blooming rose,
Whose fragance floats upon the balmy gale!
Queen of each flow'r, that summer's hand bestows,
From the fair lily to the primrose pale.

That lily blooms, in snow-white charms array'd,

(Love among the Ruins)

And suddenly the clocks rang out sang down the empty corridors
the lovers are aroused from their sleep.
It seemed the wind had blown the tender leaves like silver flecks
the tender leaves like silver flecks
against the sunlit belly of the wood.

East the ashy incense of summer
drifts across the lawn.
The couples just remember
lusty birds singing in the hedgerow at sunrise
singing till sound pierced to limbs slackly tumbled
in the abattoirs and coy fanes of love.

BY THE SAME .

Would men their faults and passions weigh
In reason's even scale;
And mind, in all they do or say,
That folly don't prevail:

Then might they shun the various ills,
That inattention brings;
By reason regulate their wills,
And happier live than kings.

BY THE SAME .

A Mouse some cheese, that in a trap was plac'd,
Survey'd with longing eyes, and wish'd to taste;
With eager joy he seiz'd the luscious bait;
No sooner seiz'd than death became his fate!
So oft mankind are drawn from virtue's way,
And brought in pleasure's flow'ry paths to stray,
Till death, o'ertaking, crops them in their bloom,
And hurls them from their pleasures to the tomb!

A pallid rout stepping like phantoms
beneath the arching boughs
have come with angel hands and wretched voices
to the valley and this choir of perish'd stones.

Valid was my anguish — as though a turbulent dove
had scatter'd the leafy silence.
Now in airless vistas, dim and blind my limbs will loiter
while the senses stray to vast defeats.

A rocking bell
peals in a grey tower.
The sound has broken down the strong defences
of age and innocence.

Cecily come with your virginal tremors
Cecily still the bell.

1

I, said the moon, who have been a maiden
worshipp'd of man
am now but a burnish'd emblem
of the sun's span.

But the old witch in me yet
is wooing, wooing.
And mine is the light of day
in this memorial noon.

2

O hallowed is the moon and holy
A bowl of languish'd fire. The years are cold