 | Poems |  |
27
SONNET.
Sweet Maid! when sickness pales that angel-face,Like the rude worm that riots on the rose,
Still goodness in thy gentle bosom glows,
And beauty will not leave her favourite place.
Still round thy languid eye will steal a smile,
As underneath a cloud the sun-beams play,
Kind harbingers of more resplendent day,
Though the full orb conceal himself awhile.
But ah! since Melancholy's baleful hand
Vile poppy-dews hath o'er thy temples spread,
And Death, methinks, looks busy round that bed,
All-hopeless Pity near shall take her stand:
Oh! she shall spare for thee her softest sigh:
For thou wast Pity's child, the friend of Misery.
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