William Hone, Poem: Sonnet, 1797 An Electronic Edition William Hone Kyle Grimes

For publication in the Hone Correspondence section of the William Hone BioText, http://honearchive.org. The letter is published under a Creative Commons license, details of which are accessible from the BioText homepage.

Transcribed from the original published version, The Monthly Visitor and Pocket Companion (London, 1797, p. 98).

 Produced letter version of the etext for inclusion in the Correspondence.
William Hone, "Dear to my soul is chill November's breeze," 25 August, 1797. This sonnet first appeared over the signature "W. S. Hone," in The Monthly Visitor and Pocket Companion (London, 1797, p. 98 in the Poetry section entitled "Parnassian Garland"). If, as seems likely, the poem was written as dated, 25 August 1797, then it was one product of Hone's years spent in the vicinity of Chatham where he met his friend John Venning and where he seems to have enjoyed what little free time he had outside of the city. The sonnet itself is reminiscent of the work of Bowles or (especially) Charlotte Smith. In the original publication the sonnet has only the generic title, "Sonnet." A Huntington Library copy in Hone's hand, obviously produced much later (after 1819), bears the more extended title "Sonnet by the Author of The Political House that Jack Built". The present text is taken from the original 1797 publication. The few differences between the two are not significant (e.g. slight alterations in capitalization, and exchanging "that" for "which" in lines two and three, and "shelving" for "shelvy" in line 10.) [return] — -TEI-
Sonnet By W. S. Hone. Dear to my soul is chill November's breeze-- The Wind which sighs along the lonely walls, The Tempest's blast which bares the sapless trees, And the low rustling of each leaf that falls. Then, when pale Ev'ning throws her mantle o'er The clear bright prospects of declining day, I frequent roam, till past the midnight hour, And to its secret influence homage pay. Oft when the moon rides in the cloudless sky, I climb the rocky mountain's shelvy side And watch the fish-boats flitting sail pass by, While roaring rolls beneath the foaming tide: These scenes assuage the pain of inward grief, Draw forth the silent tear, and give my heart relief.