Sonnet Written at Winslade, in Hampshire

WINSLADE, thy beech-capt hills, with waving grain

Mantled, thy checkered views of wood and lawn,

Whilom could charm, or when the gradual dawn

’Gan the gray mist with orient purple stain,

Or evening glimmer’d o’er the folded 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 beech and corn,

Nor views invite, since he far distant strays,

With whom I traced their sweets at eve and morn,

From Albion far, to cull Hesperian bays;

In this alone they please, howe’er forlorn,

That still they can recall those happier days.