Poem by Anna Seward

Sonnet 23. Do I not tell thee surly Winter's flown

       TO MISS E. S.

Do I not tell thee surly Winter's flown,
    That the brook's verge is green;—and bid thee hear,
    In yon irriguous vale, the Blackbird clear,
    At measur'd intervals, with mellow tone,
Choiring1 the hours of prime? and call thine ear
    To the gay viol dinning in the dale,
    With tabor loud, and bag-pipe's rustic drone
    To merry Shearer's dance;—or jest retail
From festal board, from choral roofs the song;
    And speak of Masque, or Pageant, to beguile
    The caustic memory of a cruel wrong?—
Thy lips acknowledge this a generous wile,
    And bid me still the effort kind prolong;
    But ah! they wear a cold and joyless smile.

1: “While Day arises, that sweet hour of prime.” 
Milton's Par. Lost.

1. Sonnet 30. That song again!—its sounds my bosom thrill
2. Sonnet 28. O, Genius! does thy Sun-resembling beam
3. Sonnet 63. Thy Genius, Colebrooke, faithless to his charge
4. Sonnet 25. Fortunate Vale! exulting Hill! dear Plain!
5. Sonnet 84. While one sere leaf, that parting Autumn gilds

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