THE merry cuckow, messenger of spring, SPENSER. 臼 SONNET. FAIR is the rising morn, when o'er the sky Than all the scenes in nature's ample sway, The voice that bids us welcome. Such delight, Ye hours of happiness! ye speed along ; Whilst I, from all the world's cold cares apart, Pour out the feelings of my burthened heart.-SOUTHLY. SONNET. GIVE me a cottage on some Cambrian wild, And, by the beauties of the scene beguiled, List to the mountain torrent's distant noise, I shall not want the world's delusive joys; But, with my little scrip, my book, my lyre, Shall think my lot complete, nor covet more; And when, with time, shall wane the vital fire, I'll raise my pillow on the desert shore, And lay me down to rest where the wild wave Shall make sweet music o'er my lonely grave. HENRY KIRKE WHITE. |