SONNETS.
ATTEMPTED IN THE MANNER OP CONTEMPORARY WRITERS.
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SONNET I.
Pensive, at eve, on the hard world I mus'd,
And my poor heart was sad: so at the moon
I gazed, and sigh'd, and sigh'd! for ah! how soon
Eve darkens into night! Mine eye perus'd
With tearful vacancy the dampy grass,
Which wept and glitter'd in the paly ray:
And I did pause me on my lonely way,
And muse me on those wretched ones, who pass
O'er the black heath of sorrow. But alas!
Most of MYSELF I thought: when it befel
That the sooth SPIRIT of the breezy wood
Breath'd in mine ear—"All this is very well;
But much of one thing is for no-thing good."
Ah! my poor heart's inexplicable swell!