No. XXI.
Sonnet.
Ah! let not hope fallacious, airy, wild, Illusive rays amid the tempest blend! No more my soul with varied feelings rend, Soft sensibility — refinement’s child!
May apathy her wand oblivious spread Steep’s in lethean waves, with poppies twin’d, And gently bending o’er my languid head, To long repose beguile a wayward mind.
While keen reflection throbs in every vein, Thy aid oblivion, vainly I implore! This heart shall tremble with the sense of pain, Till death’s cold hand a lasting peace restore.
Ah! say can reason’s feebler power controul, The finer movements of the feeling soul? [258]
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