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SONNET I.
'Twas my fond wish to greet our wedding day,
My Margaret, with a strain of jocund rhyme,
Such as I used to weave, in youth's sweet prime,
From a strange store of fancies wild and gay,
And quaint conceits, which intermingled lay
With graver thoughts, and musings half sublime
In my brain's cells: all these the frosts of time
Have nipt ere yet my hair is tinged with grey.
Chide me not, Love, nor cherish vain regret
For gifts departed:—we can spare them well;
What tho' young Fancy's dreamy moon hath set,
And Passion's once wild waves no longer swell,
Love's sober daylight smiles upon us yet,
And Peace is ours, how pure no tongue can tell.
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