SONNET.
EXTRACTED FROM A NOVEL IN MANUSCRIPT.
Winter, thy reign is past, and graceful spring
Comes all attir’d to bless expectant May;
From every Vale the Zephyrs odours bring,
And birds sit twittering on each budding spray.
Wide stream the splendors from the Orb of Day,
To warm the chilly bosom of the earth;
While smiling Flora, greets the genial ray,
And calls her timid beauteous favourites forth.
But I hail not the glories of the Sun,
Nor bless the spicy breeze that skims the heath:
For I, an exile, unbelov’d—unknown,
Am hastening to the cold—cold realms of death!
I sink into the grave without a name,
The hapless victim of a Sacred Flame.
ANNA.
July 17th, 1796.