SONNET. 
279 
Yet over all is a mantling gloom, 
That saddens the gazer’s heart; 
For soon shall the Autumn’s varied bloom 
From the forest trees depart: 
The bright leaves whirl in the eddying air, 
Their beautiful tints are fading fast, 
The mountain tops will soon be bare, 
And the Indian Summer past. 
BmxtL 
Keate. 
j/'EEN fitful gusts are whispering here and there 
Among the bushes, half leafless and dry ; 
The stars look very cold about the sky, 
And I have many miles on foot to fare; 
Yet feel I little of the cool bleak air, 
Or of the dead leaves rustling drearily, 
Or of those silver lamps that burn on high, 
Or of the distance from home’s pleasant lair, 
For I am brimful of the friendliness 
That in a little cottage I have found 
Of fair hair’d Milton’s eloquent distress, 
And all his love for gentle Lycid drowned; 
Of lovely Laura in her light green dress, 
And faithful Petrarch gloriously crowned. 
