 | Poetical remains (1872) |  |
73
Sonnet.
[Thrice hath the sun his annual circle rolled]
1778.
Thrice hath the sun his annual circle rolled
And now is hastening to the goal again,
Since Love within my bosom fixed his reign,
And, joined by reason, lorded uncontrolled.
Yet never dared my lips, too fondly bold,
To speak what language can but ill explain;
And if to conscious Heaven I breathed my pain,
In faltering sounds the timorous wish I told.
Ah! then in livelier signs than words exprest,
In softly languid looks, and stealing sighs,
Read, gentle maid, my tender woe confest.
And Thou to whom is known, O Power all-wise,
Each unborn purpose labouring in the breast,
So hear my faltered vows, as pure they rise.
| Poetical remains (1872) | |