Sonnet on a Wet Summer

ALL ye who far from town in rural hall,

Like me, were wont to dwell near pleasant field,

Enjoying all the sunny day did yield,

With me the change lament, in irksome thrall,

By rains incessant held; for now no call

From early swain invites my hand to wield

The scythe. In parlour dim I sit concealed,

And mark the lessening sand from hour-glass fall;

Or 'neath my window view the wistful train

Of dripping poultry, whom the vine's broad leaves

Shelter no more. Mute is the mournful plain;

Silent the swallow sits beneath the thatch,

And vacant hind hangs pensive o'er his hatch,

Counting the frequent drips from reeded eaves.

John Codrington Bampfylde

Sonnet to the Redbreast

WHEN that the fields put on their gay attire,

Thou silent sitt'st near brake or river's brim,

Whilst the gay thrush sings loud from covert dim;

But when pale Winter lights the social fire,

And meads with slime are sprent, and ways with mire,

Thou charm'st us with thy soft and solemn hymn

From battlement, or barn, or haystack trim;

And now not seldom tunest, as if for hire,

Thy thrilling pipe to me, waiting to catch

The pittance due to thy well-warbled song:

Sweet bird! sing on; for oft near lonely hatch,

Like thee, myself have pleased the rustic throng,

And oft for entrance, 'neath the peaceful thatch,

Full many a tale have told, a ditty long.

John Codrington Bampfylde