The Land of the Muses a poem, In the Manner of Spenser. With Poems on several Occasions. By Hugh Downman |
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| I. | SONNET I.
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| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
 | The Land of the Muses |  |
SONNET I.
[Hence Sickness, nor about my weary head]
Hence Sickness, nor about my weary headThy languid vapours wrap, and drooping wings:
Better would'st thou thy baleful poison shed
In some dark cave where the Night-raven sings,
Where heavy sits the gloom-delighted Owl,
Where Aconite its loathsome juices throws;
Where dwells the Bat, and Serpents hissing foul,
And fell Despair, who never knows repose:
There drag with thee the wretch, who has betray'd
His trust, has ruin'd innocence, or spilt
The sacred blood of him who gave him life;
Him torture there: nor will the lovely maid,
The sweet-ey'd Mercy, conscious of his guilt,
Restrain thy hand, or blunt thy sharpen'd knife.
| The Land of the Muses | |