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]