SONNET.

OCCASIONED BY DISENGAGING À MARTLET FROM THE JAWS OF A CAT.

BY T. PARK, ESQ.

HERALD of Summer! hapless was the flight
From thy mud hermitage or chimnied cell,
To skim the streamlet where, since dawn of light,
In the long spear-grass lurk'd grimalkin fell;
For while in airy cirque thy rapid wing

Fann'd the young swarms that hover near the flood, Yon dark assassin, at one deadly spring,

Fix'd his strong talons in thy innocent blood!

Nor ever can thy shatter'd pinion tower

To milder climes when wintry white-frosts chill,
Nor hither flit at April's balmy hour

To mould thy matted nest with plastic bill:-
Like some sad alien from Gallia's shore,
Here wert thou exil'd, to return no more!

SONNET.

Written extempore, at the request of a Lady, for a Valentine.

BY CHARLES LEFTLY, ESQ.

Dost thou pass sleepless nights, by day-light rove To dusky thickets to indulge thy tears?

Dost thou remember nothing but thy love,

Now burn with ardent hopes, now chill with freezing fears?

Perchance thy mistress treats thy suit with scorn,
Canst thou at night her company forswear,
Yet lay beneath her window till the morn,
Regardless of the shrewd and biting air?
Caust thou for her brave poverty and pain,
A parent's anger, and the world's disdain;
And may
she hope thy fondness to engage
Though pale with sickness, and deform'd with age?

If so, then seek her, wishful to be thine,

For thou and none but thou shalt be her VALENTINE,

SONNET.

TO MR. WESTALL.

BY CHARLES LEFTLY, ESQ.

WESTALL, I wish'd to steal into Fame's graces,
And oft I tried, but tried alas in vain ;
The fickle goddess fled from my embraces,
So now I crave your help my suit to gain ;
For on her shrine your hand such offerings places
As she can never look on with disdain;

She loves each object that your pencil traces,
And hangs your harp up in her sacred fane.
Then, since all grace and gentleness possessing,
You suffer me no common boon to claim,
Grant me this wish'd for and distinguish'd blessing,
First on your list of friends to write my name :
So do I'
guess, if I have skill in guessing,

To get admitted to the porch of Fame.

O THOU! for whom my verse has often flow'd
In strains of woe to thy fraternal name,
For whom my bosom with affection glow'd,
While thou wast tenant of thy mortal frame;

For thee that bosom still remains the same,

Tho' many a spring has deck'd, with flow'rs, thy grave,

Time rolls his years; but loses still his aim

Timpair the deep impressions nature gave. Thine image can each present object brave,

And prove remembrance stronger far than sense. Fraternal love can never cease to crave

The tender tribute of regret intense.

Tho' hoary age should tell my hundredth year,
Thy name shall still be mention'd with a tear!

SONNET.

THE MUSING LOVER.

LONG have these walls, since touch'd by Ruin's hand,
Hung, threat'ning death to all that pass'd below;
Yet, strange to tell, while pensive here I stand,
Their desolation fills my breast with woe.
For here I first beheld the darling maid,

To whom henceforth my best regards are due;
For here I first that graceful form survey'd,

By far the fairest in affection's view:

Here first those eyes I saw, whose radiance clear
With softest influence penetrates the soul;
Here first that voice I heard, whose accents dear
Can each tormenting passion's power controul:
Here first I knew that strong, but gentle mind,
From which my future life its comfort hopes to find.