Poem by Anna Seward

Sonnet 68. Well it becomes thee, Britain, to avow

    ON THE POSTHUMOUS FAME OF DOCTOR JOHNSON.

Well it becomes thee, Britain, to avow
    Johnson's high claims!—yet boasting that his fires
    Were of unclouded lustre, Truth retires
    Blushing, and Justice knits her solemn brow;
The eyes of Gratitude withdraw the glow
    His moral strain inspir'd.—Their zeal requires
    That thou should'st better guard the sacred Lyres,
    Sources of thy bright fame, than to bestow
Perfection's wreath on him, whose ruthless hand,
    Goaded by jealous rage, the laurels tore,
    That Justice, Truth, and Gratitude demand
Should deck those Lyres till Time shall be no more.—
    A radiant course did Johnson's Glory run,
    But large the spots that darken'd on its Sun.

1. Sonnet 75. He found her not;—yet much the Poet found
2. Sonnet 90. My hour is not yet come!—these burning eyes
3. Sonnet 78. Sophia tempts me to her social walls
4. Sonnet 44. Rapt Contemplation, bring thy waking dreams
5. Sonnet 1. When Life's realities the Soul perceives

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