Sonnet Vii.

Let the sublimer Muse, who wrapt in night Rides on the raven pennons of the storm, Or o'er the field with purple havock warm Lashes her steeds and sings along the fight,- Let her, whom more ferocious strains delight, Disdain the plaintive sonnet's little form, And scorn to its mild cadence to conform The impetuous tenor of her hardy flight. But me, far lowliest of the sylvan train Who wake the wood-nymphs from the forest shade With wildest song,-me much behooves the aid Of mingled melody, to grace my strain, And give it power to please, as soft it flows Through the smooth murmurs of thy frequent close.