SONNET IV.—BLISS IN GRIEF.
Under a cypress-tree I pitch my tent:
The tomb shall be my fortress; at its gate
I sit and watch each hostile armament,
And all the pains and penalties of Fate.
And oh ye loved ones! that already sleep,
Hushed in the noiseless bed of endless rest,
For whom, while living, I could only weep,
But never help in all your sore distress,
And ye who still your lonely burthen bear,