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I

MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS.

  How sweet it is, when mother Fancy rocks
  The wayward brain, to saunter through a wood!
  An old place, full of many a lovely brood,
  Tall trees, green arbours, and ground flowers in flocks;
  And Wild rose tip-toe upon hawthorn stocks,
  Like to a bonny Lass, who plays her pranks
  At Wakes and Fairs with wandering Mountebanks,
  When she stands cresting the Clown's head, and mocks
  The crowd beneath her. Verily I think,
  Such place to me is sometimes like a dream
  Or map of the whole world: thoughts, link by link
  Enter through ears and eyesight, with such gleam
  Of all things, that at last in fear I shrink,
  And leap at once from the delicious stream.

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