 | Poems and songs |  |
91
SONNET. TO FORTUNE.
How many, Fortune, worship at thy shrine,With wo-worn cheek, and modest, humble prayer,
Yet oft, alas! are cheerless left to pine,
And waste their weary moments in despair!
I too have wooed thee many a bitter day,
Since first I struggled in Misfortune's stream;
Have sung thy praises in the wild-taught lay,
The little offspring of Hope's favoured beam;
Yet still I'm poor, as those who claim thy aid:
Of golden riches I can boast no store;
Yes—but thou gavest me Laura, sweetest Maid!
I thank thee, Fortune—for I ask no more.
My Laura's smile can chase Misfortune's frown,
And sorrows past in sweet oblivion drown.
| Poems and songs | |