SONNET XVI. NOVEMBER. THE mellow year is hasting to its close; Oft with the Morn's hoar chrystal quaintly glass'd, SONNET XVII. ON PARTING WITH A VERY PRETTY, BUT VERY LITTLE LADY. 'Tis ever thus. We only meet on earth Who for brief space reveals her beauty rare, D SONNET XVIII. NIGHT. THE crackling embers on the hearth are dead; The latch is fast; upon the window sill Of listening night. And haply now she sleeps; SONNET XIX. THE FIRST BIRTH DAY. THE Sun, sweet girl, hath run his year-long race Pass some few changes of the fickle Moon, The merry babe has learn'd its Mother's smile, Its father's frown, its nurse's mimic rage. SONNET XX. WHITHER-Oh—whither, in the wandering air, |