Sonnet LX.[1]

Why view'st thou, Edwy, with disdainful mien
    The little Naiad of the Downton Wave?
    High 'mid the rocks, where her clear waters lave
    The circling, gloomy basin. - In such scene,
Silent, sequester'd, few demand, I ween,
    That last perfection Phidian chisels gave.
    Dimly the soft and musing Form is seen
    In the hush'd, shelly, shadowy, lone concave. -
As sleeps her pure, tho' darkling fountain there,
    I love to recollect her, stretch'd supine
    Upon its mossy brink, with pendent hair,
As dripping o'er the flood. - Ah! well combine
    Such gentle graces, modest, pensive, fair,
    To aid the magic of her watry shrine.

1: The above Sonnet was addressed to a Friend, who had fastidiously despised, because he did not think it exquisite sculpture, the Statue of a Water-Nymph in Mr. Knight's singular, and beautiful Cold Bath at Downton Castle near Ludlow. It rises amidst a Rotunda, formed by Rocks, and covered with shells, and fossils, in the highest elevation of that mountainous and romantic Scene.

Anna Seward

Anna Seward was an English Romantic poet often called the 'Swan of Lichfield'. She was known for both her poetry and her extensive letter writing, which provided insight into 18th-century literary life. Seward was a steadfast critic of the neoclassicism that dominated much of the contemporary poetry scene, favoring a Romantic approach that sought to capture emotion and natural beauty. Her works often revolved around themes of love, loss, and nature. She was also a close friend of writers such as Erasmus Darwin and Samuel Johnson.

Anna Seward

Sonnet XXXVII. Autumn.

Anna Seward, Simple Poetry

Sonnet XXXI. To The Departing Spirit Of An Alienated Friend.

Anna Seward, Simple Poetry

Sonnet LXXV. Subject Continued.

Anna Seward, Simple Poetry

Odes From Horace. - To [1]Thaliarchus. Book The First, Ode The Ninth.

Anna Seward, Simple Poetry

English

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Sonnet VII.

By Derwent's rapid stream as oft I stray'd,
    With Infancy's light step and glances wild,
    And saw vast rocks, on steepy mountains pil'd,
    Frown o'er th' umbrageous glen; or pleas'd survey'd
The cloudy moonshine in the shadowy glade,
    Romantic Nature to th' enthusiast Child
    Grew dearer far than when serene she smil'd,
    In uncontrasted loveliness array'd.
But O! in every Scene, with sacred sway,
    Her graces fire me; from the bloom that spreads
    Resplendent in the lucid morn of May,
To the green light the little Glow-worm sheds
    On mossy banks, when midnight glooms prevail,
    And softest Silence broods o'er all the dale.

Anna Seward

Sonnet LXXXIX. Subject Continued.

Yon late but gleaming Moon, in hoary light
    Shines out unveil'd, and on the cloud's dark fleece
    Rests; - but her strengthen'd beams appear to increase
    The wild disorder of this troubled Night.
Redoubling Echos seem yet more to excite
    The roaring Winds and Waters! - Ah! why cease
    Resolves, that promis'd everlasting peace,
    And drew my steps to this incumbent height?
I wish! - I shudder! - stretch my longing arms
    O'er the steep cliff! - My swelling spirits brave
    The leap, that quiets all these dire alarms,
And floats me tossing on the stormy wave!
    But Oh! what roots my feet? - what spells, what charms
    The daring purpose of my Soul enslave?

Anna Seward

Sonnet VI. Written At Lichfield, In An Eastern Apartment Of The Bishop's Palace, Which Commands A View Of Stow Valley.

In this chill morning of a wintry Spring
    I look into the gloom'd and rainy vale;
    The sullen clouds, the stormy winds assail,
    Lour on the fields, and with impetuous wing
Disturb the lake: - but Love and Memory cling
    To their known scene, in this cold influence pale;
    Yet priz'd, as when it bloom'd in Summer's gale,
    Ting'd by his setting sun. - When Sorrows fling,
Or slow Disease, thus, o'er some beauteous Form
    Their shadowy languors, Form, devoutly dear
    As thine to me, HONORA, with more warm
And anxious gaze the eyes of Love sincere
    Bend on the charms, dim in their tintless snow,
    Than when with health's vermilion hues they glow.

Anna Seward

Sonnet LXXXII.

From a riv'd Tree, that stands beside the grave
    Of the Self-slaughter'd, to the misty Moon
    Calls the complaining Owl in Night's pale noon;
    And from a hut, far on the hill, to rave
Is heard the angry Ban-Dog. With loud wave
    The rous'd and turbid River surges down,
    Swoln with the mountain-rains, and dimly shown
    Appals the Sense. - Yet see! from yonder cave,
Her shelter in the recent, stormy showers,
    With anxious brow, a fond expecting Maid
    Steals towards the flood! - Alas! - for now appears
Her Lover's vacant boat! - the broken oars
    Roll down the tide! - What images invade!
    Aghast she stands, the Statue of her fears!

Anna Seward

Sonnet III. Written At Buxton In A Rainy Season.

From these wild heights, where oft the mists descend
    In rains, that shroud the sun, and chill the gale,
    Each transient, gleaming interval we hail,
    And rove the naked vallies, and extend
Our gaze around, where yon vast mountains blend
    With billowy clouds, that o'er their summits sail;
    Pondering, how little Nature's charms befriend
    The barren scene, monotonous, and pale.
Yet solemn when the darkening shadows fleet
    Successive o'er the wide and silent hills,
    Gilded by watry sun-beams, then we meet
Peculiar pomp of vision. Fancy thrills,
    And owns there is no scene so rude and bare,
    But Nature sheds or grace or grandeur there.

Anna Seward

Sonnet XXXIII.

Last night her Form the hours of slumber bless'd
    Whose eyes illumin'd all my youthful years. -
    Spirit of dreams, at thy command appears
    Each airy Shape, that visiting our rest,
Dismays, perplexes, or delights the breast.
    My pensive heart this kind indulgence cheers;
    Bliss, in no waking moment now possess'd,
    Bliss, ask'd of thee with Memory's thrilling tears,
Nightly I cry, how oft, alas! in vain,
    Give, by thy powers, that airy Shapes controul,
    HONORA to my visions! - ah! ordain
Her beauteous lip may wear the smile that stole,
    In years long fled, the sting from every pain!
    Show her sweet face, ah show it to my soul!

June 1780.

Anna Seward