Sonnet XLVIII. to Mrs. ****
NO more my wearied soul attempts to stray
From sad reality and vain regret,
Nor courts enchanting fiction to allay
Sorrows that sense refuses to forget:
For of calamity so long the prey,
Imagination now has lost her powers,
Nor will her fairy loom again essay
To dress affliction in a robe of flowers.
But if no more the bowers of Fancy bloom,
Let one superior scene attract my view,
Where heaven’s pure rays the sacred spot illume,
Let thy loved hand with palm and amaranth strew
The mournful path approaching to the tomb,
While Faith’s consoling voice endears the friendly gloom.
