Sonnet V. To A Friend, Who Thinks Sensibility A Misfortune.

Ah, thankless! canst thou envy him who gains The Stoic's cold and indurate repose? Thou! with thy lively sense of bliss and woes!— From a false balance of life's joys and pains Thou deem'st him happy.—Plac'd 'mid fair domains, Where full the river down the valley flows, As wisely might'st thou wish thy home had rose On the parch'd surface of unwater'd plains, For that, when long the heavy rain descends, Bursts over guardian banks their whelming tide!— Seldom the wild and wasteful Flood extends, But, spreading plenty, verdure, beauty wide, The cool translucent Stream perpetual bends, And laughs the Vale as the bright waters glide.