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.

1. Sonnet 65. Marcellus, since the ardors of my strain
2. Sonnet 53. The knell of Whitehead tolls!—his cares are past
3. Sonnet 56. What bashful wildness in those crystal eyes
4. Sonnet 98. Since my griev'd mind some energy regains
5. Sonnet 38. If he whose bosom with no transport swells

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