 | Three Hundred Sonnets |  |
206
HOME, WRETCHED.
Scene of disunion, bickering, and strife,What curse has made thy native blessings die?
Why do these broils embitter daily life,
And hard self-interest form the strongest tie?
Hate ill-concealed is flashing from the eye,
And muttered vengeance curls the pallid lip;
What should be harmony is all at jar;
Doubt and reserve love's timid blossoms nip,
And weaken nature's links to ropes of sand;
While dull indifference takes the icy hand
(O chilling touch!) of constrained fellowship:
What secret demon has such discord fann'd?
What ill committed stirs this penal war?
What good omitted?—Woe, that such things are!
| Three Hundred Sonnets | |