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Poem by Anna Seward


Sonnet 20. Ah! might I range each hallow'd bower and glade


ON READING A DESCRIPTION OF POPE's GARDENS 
AT TWICKENHAM.

Ah! might I range each hallow'd bower and glade
    Musæus cultur'd, many a raptur'd sigh
    Wou'd that dear, local consciousness supply
    Beneath his willow, in the grotto's shade,
Whose roof his hand with ores and shells inlaid.
    How sweet to watch, with reverential eye,
    Thro' the sparr'd arch, the streams he oft survey'd,
    Thine, blue Thamésis, gently wandering by!
This is the Poet's triumph, and it towers
    O'er Life's pale ills, his consciousness of powers
    That lift his memory from Oblivion's gloom,
Secure a train of these heart-thrilling hours
    By his idea deck'd in rapture's bloom,
    For Spirits rightly touch'd, thro' ages yet to come.



Anna Seward


Anna Seward's other poems:
  1. Sonnet 45. From Possibility's dim chaos sprung
  2. Sonnet 15. The evening shines in May's luxuriant pride
  3. Sonnet 87. Round Cleon's brow the Delphic laurels twine
  4. Sonnet 56. What bashful wildness in those crystal eyes
  5. Sonnet 28. O, Genius! does thy Sun-resembling beam

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