Poem by Anna Seward

Sonnet 16. Apollo, at his crowded altars, tir'd

      TRANSLATED FROM BOILEAU.

Apollo, at his crowded altars, tir'd
    Of Votaries, who for trite ideas thrown
    Into loose verse, assume, in lofty tone,
    The Poet's name, untaught, and uninspir'd,
Indignant struck the Lyre.—Straight it acquir'd
    New powers, and complicate. Then first was known
    The rigorous Sonnet, to be fram'd alone
    By duteous Bards, or by just Taste admir'd.—
Go, energetic Sonnet, go, he cried,
    And be the test of skill!—For rhymes that flow
    Regardless of thy rules, their destin'd guide,
Yet take thy name, ah! let the boasters know
    That with strict sway my jealous laws preside,
    While I no wreaths on rebel verse bestow.

1. Sonnet 15. The evening shines in May's luxuriant pride
2. Sonnet 45. From Possibility's dim chaos sprung
3. Sonnet 48. Now young-ey'd Spring, on gentle breezes borne
4. Sonnet 13. Thou child of Night, and Silence, balmy Sleep
5. Sonnet 53. The knell of Whitehead tolls!—his cares are past

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