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SONNET II.

[Oh, I have told thee every secret care!]

Oh, I have told thee every secret care!
And crept to thee when pale with sickliness!
Thou did'st provide my morrow's simple fare,
And with meek love my elfin wrongs redress.
My Grandmother! when pondering all alone
Fain would I list thy footstep! but my call
Thou dost not hear; nor mark the tears that fall
From my dim eyes! No, Thou art dead and gone!
How can I think that Thou didst mildly spread
Thy feeble arms, and clasp me o'er and o'er
Ere infant Gratitude one tear could shed!
How think of Thee, to whom its little store
My bosom owes, nor tempted by Despair
Mix busy anguish with imperfect prayer!