Sharpen the keenest edge of present ill,—
On the crushed heart a heavier burthen lay.
Just Heaven, contract the compass of my mind
To fit proportion with my altered state!
Quench those felicities whose light I find
Reflected in[374] my bosom all too late!—
O be my spirit, like my thraldom, strait;
And, like mine eyes that stream with sorrow, blind!"
Compare the Lament of Mary Queen of Scots, p. 162.
Why this sonnet was printed, from 1819 (in which year it appeared in The Waggoner, a Poem, to which are added Sonnets,) to the last edition of 1849, within inverted commas, I have never been able to discover.—Ed.