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]