Sonnet I.

My heart has thanked thee, Bowles! for those soft strains
Whose sadness soothes me, like the murmuring
Of wild bees in the sunny showers of spring!
For hence not callous to the mourner's pains
Thro' Youth's gay prime and thornless paths I went:
And when the darker day of life began,
And I did roam, a thought-bewildered man!
Their mild and manliest melancholy lent
A mingled charm, which oft the pang consigned
To slumber, tho' the big tear it renewed:
Bidding such strange mysterious pleasure brood
Over the wavy and tumultuous mind,
As made the soul enamoured of her woe:
No common praise, dear Bard! to thee I owe!