A SONNET; written at W—DE in the absence of

W—DE, thy beechen slopes with waving grain Border'd, thine azure views of wood and lawn, Whilom could charm, or when the joyous Dawn Gan Night's dun robe with flushing purple stain, Or Evening drove to sold her woolly train; Her fairest landscapes whence my Muse has drawn, Too free with servile courtly phrase to fawn, Too weak to try the Buskin's stately strain: Yet now no more thy slopes of wood and corn Nor prospects charm, since HE far-distant strays With whom I trac'd their sweets each eve and morn, From Albion far, to cull fair Gallia's bays; In this alone they please, howe'er forlorn, That still they can recall those happier days.