SONNET.

When I sit musing on the chequer'd past (A term much darken'd with untimely woes), My thoughts revert to her, for whom still flows The tear, though half disown'd; and binding fast Pride's stubborn cheat to my too yielding heart, I say to her she robb'd me of my rest, When that was all my wealth. 'Tis true my breast Received from her this wearying, lingering smart; Yet, ah! I cannot bid her form depart; Though wrong'd, I love her—yet in anger love, For she was most unworthy.—Then I prove Vindictive joy; and on my stern front gleams, Throned in dark clouds, inflexible.... The native pride of my much injured heart.