SONNET
In deep depression sunk, the enfeebled mind
Will to the deaf, cold elements complain,
And tell the embosom'd grief, however vain,
To sullen surges and the viewless wind.
Tho' no repose on thy dark breast I find,
I still enjoy thee—chearless as thou art;
For in thy quiet gloom, the exhausted heart,
Is calm, tho' wretched; hopeless, yet resign'd.
While, to the winds and waves, it's sorrows given,
May reach—tho' lost on earth—the ear of heaven!
'Surely,' said Mrs. Stafford in a whisper, 'it is a voice I know.'
'Surely,' repeated the heart of Emmeline, for she could not speak, 'it is the voice of Godolphin!'
'Do you,' reassumed Mrs. Stafford—'do you not recollect the voice?'
'Yes,' replied Emmeline. 'I think—I believe—I rather fancy it is—Mr. Godolphin.'
'Shall I speak to him?' asked Mrs. Stafford, 'or are you disposed to hear more poetry? He has no notion who are his auditors.'
'As you please,' said Emmeline.