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 7. By Derwent's rapid stream as oft I stray'd
2. Sonnet 1. When Life's realities the Soul perceives
3. Sonnet 31. O, EVER DEAR! thy precious, vital powers
4. Sonnet 58. Not the slow Hearse, where nod the sable plumes
5. Sonnet 44. Rapt Contemplation, bring thy waking dreams

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