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,

Where forc'd 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!