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 75. He found her not;—yet much the Poet found
2. Sonnet 90. My hour is not yet come!—these burning eyes
3. Sonnet 78. Sophia tempts me to her social walls
4. Sonnet 44. Rapt Contemplation, bring thy waking dreams
5. Sonnet 1. When Life's realities the Soul perceives

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