 | The magic fountain |  |
46
SONNET. TO MR. ---
When from the vulgar low, or vulgar great,
I suffer obloquy, neglect, or scorn,
With petty slights each day renewed or born,
Which, though they gall, we scarce can designate—
What is it keeps my heart, if not elate,
Yet from despondence free, and fevered pulse,
And harsher thoughts that might a breast convulse,
To feel the partialities of Fate?
I suffer obloquy, neglect, or scorn,
With petty slights each day renewed or born,
Which, though they gall, we scarce can designate—
What is it keeps my heart, if not elate,
Yet from despondence free, and fevered pulse,
And harsher thoughts that might a breast convulse,
To feel the partialities of Fate?
Hear it, my friend! and little shall I reck
If that its vanity excite a smile—
It is the hope, that, when the Sexton's pile
Of turf is on me, which the Spring shall deck,
My name and fame shall o'er the world be blown,
While their forgotten limbs shall “crumble bone by bone!”
If that its vanity excite a smile—
It is the hope, that, when the Sexton's pile
Of turf is on me, which the Spring shall deck,
My name and fame shall o'er the world be blown,
While their forgotten limbs shall “crumble bone by bone!”
| The magic fountain | |