Volume 3 — SONNET XI.

How sweet to rove, from summer sun-beams veil’d, In gloomy dingles; or to trace the tide Of wandering brooks, their pebbly beds that chide; To feel the west-wind cool refreshment yield, That comes soft creeping o’er the flowery field, And shadow’d waters; in whose bushy side The mountain-bees their fragrant treasure hide Murmuring; and sings the lonely thrush conceal’d: Then, Ceremony, in thy gilded halls, When forced and frivolous the themes arise, With bow and smile unmeaning, O! how palls At thee, and thine, my sense!—how oft it sighs For leisure, wood-lanes, dells, and water-falls; And feels th’ untemper’d heat of sultry skies!