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Poem by Anna Seward


Sonnet 23. Do I not tell thee surly Winter's flown


       TO MISS E. S.

Do I not tell thee surly Winter's flown,
    That the brook's verge is green;and bid thee hear,
    In yon irriguous vale, the Blackbird clear,
    At measur'd intervals, with mellow tone,
Choiring1 the hours of prime? and call thine ear
    To the gay viol dinning in the dale,
    With tabor loud, and bag-pipe's rustic drone
    To merry Shearer's dance;or jest retail
From festal board, from choral roofs the song;
    And speak of Masque, or Pageant, to beguile
    The caustic memory of a cruel wrong?
Thy lips acknowledge this a generous wile,
    And bid me still the effort kind prolong;
    But ah! they wear a cold and joyless smile.

1: While Day arises, that sweet hour of prime. 
Milton's Par. Lost.



Anna Seward


Anna Seward's other poems:
  1. Sonnet 71. While Summer Roses all their glory yield
  2. Sonnet 25. Fortunate Vale! exulting Hill! dear Plain!
  3. Sonnet 45. From Possibility's dim chaos sprung
  4. Sonnet 15. The evening shines in May's luxuriant pride
  5. Sonnet 87. Round Cleon's brow the Delphic laurels twine

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