Sonnet

h, wretched wight! whom Fame shall tempt to leave The soft and silent valley of Repose, And with her deeply-stirring voice deceive To deeds of thankless toil, and weary woes; Ah, wretched wight! who stays ne to perceive The thorns that threat'ning gird the peerless rose, But hopes unharm'd he may a wreath receive Of deathless flowerets to bedeck his brows— Look up!—afore the beamy towers of Fame What fell and ghastly fiends for ever wait, Envy, whose baleful vipers none can tame, And Disappointment of slow sullen gait, And with her eyes abash'd heart-damping Shame; Fly, fly to fair Repose, nor scorn so sweet a mate.