Thou bleedest, my poor heart! and thy distress Reas'ning I ponder with a scornful smile And probe thy sore wound sternly, tho' the while Swollen be mine eye and dim with heaviness. Why didst thou listen to Hope's whisper bland? Or list'ning, why forget the healing tale, When Jealousy with fev'rish fancies pale Jarred thy fine fibres with a maniac's hand? Faint was that Hope, and rayless!--Yet 'twas fair, And soothed with many a dream the hour of rest: Thou shouldst have loved it most, when most opprest, And nursed it with an agony of care, Even as a Mother her sweet infant heir, That wan and sickly droops upon her breast!
Sonnet III.
Thou gentle Look, that didst my soul beguile, Why hast thou left me? Still in some fond dream Revisit my sad heart, auspicious Smile! As falls on closing flowers the lunar beam: What time, in sickly mood, at parting day I lay me down and think of happier years; Of joys, that glimmered in Hope's twilight ray, Then left me darkling in a vale of tears. O pleasant days of Hope -- forever flown! Could I recall you!-- But that thought is vain. Availeth not Persuasion's sweetest tone To lure the fleet-winged travellers back again: Yet fair, tho' faint, their images shall gleam Like the bright Rainbow on an evening stream.
Sonnet IX. To Priestley
Tho' roused by that dark Visir riot rude Have driven our Priestly o'er the ocean swell; Tho' Superstition and her wolfish brood Bay his mild radiance, impotent and fell; Calm in his halls of Brightness he shall dwell; For lo! Religion at his strong behest Starts with mild anger from the Papal spell, And flings to Earth her tinsel-glittering vest, Her mitred state and cumbrous pomp unholy; And Justice wakes to bid th' Oppressor wail, Insulting aye the wrongs of patient folly; And from her dark retreat by Wisdom won, Meek Nature slowly lifts her matron veil To smile with fondness on her gazing son!
Sonnet V.
Sweet Mercy! how my very heart has bled To see thee, poor old man! and thy gray hairs Hoar with the snowy blast; while no one cares To clothe thy shrivelled limbs and palsied head. My Father! throw away this tattered vest That mocks thy shiv'ring! take my garment--use A young man's arm! I'll melt these frozen dews That hang from thy white beard and numb thy breast. My Sara, too, shall tend thee, like a child: And thou shalt talk, in our fire-side's recess, Of purple pride, that scowls on wretchedness.-- He did not scowl, the Galilaean mild, Who met the Lazar turned from rich man's doors, And called him Friend, and wept upon his sores!
Sonnet VI.
Pale Roamer thro' the Night! thou poor forlorn! Remorse that man on his death-bed possess, Who in the credulous hour of tenderness Betrayed, then cast thee forth to Want and scorn! The World is pityless; the Chaste one's pride, Mimic of Virtue, scowls on thy distress; Thy kindred, when they see thee, turn aside, And Vice alone will shelter Wretchedness! O! I am sad to think, that there should be Men, born of woman, who endure to place Foul offerings on the shrine of Misery, And force from Famine the caress of Love! Man has no feeling of thy sore Disgrace: Keen blows the blast upon the moulting dove!
