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We have quitted the Castle, and have taken a peep at the Priory, where we meet with characters to amuse and instruct, and such as are to be found daily in the beaten and busy road of life. A specimen of the author's talent for poetry is presented in what she calls
A SONNET. TO MORNING.
'I love thee, Morn, mild grey-eyed maid,
When Sol's refulgence gilds the east,
And, with luxuriant hand display'd,
His beams dispel the murky mist;
When night retires with all her shadowy train,
To her deep cypress cave, beneath the cheerless main.
When the clear dew-drops on the hawthorn glow,
And notes of praise through all the welkin ring,
When the glad kine their unfeign'd pleasures low,
And thy glad herald soars with quiv'ring wing;
When rosy health trips lightly o'er the plain,
To greet at early dawn the ruddy village swain;
When curling woodbines scent the soften'd gales,
Which hail the golden car Aurora guides;
When ev'ry flower its vary'd sweets exhales,
And purest pleasure o'er the scene presides;
When every charm by thy mild influence given,
Receives fresh lustre from opposing heaven.'
This effusion is penned by the interesting Ellen Rutland, during her seclusion at Ivy-Farm, and we think she could not have employed her time better, or more naturally - certain lady writers of no small celebrity may take the hint; for we cannot altogether approve of young women of virtue and discretion sitting down to court the muse, however she may smile, at the moment of danger to their repose, honour, and character. But where fashion justifies, candour must soften.
[complete]. Provided by Julie Shaffer, July 1999.
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