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 87. Round Cleon's brow the Delphic laurels twine
2. Sonnet 13. Thou child of Night, and Silence, balmy Sleep
3. Sonnet 53. The knell of Whitehead tolls!—his cares are past
4. Sonnet 15. The evening shines in May's luxuriant pride
5. Sonnet 45. From Possibility's dim chaos sprung

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