SONNET IV.

What tho’ no sculptur'd monument proclaim

Thy fate-yet Albert in my breast I bear

Inshrin'd the sad remembrance; yet thy name

Will fill my throbbing bosom. When DESPAIR

The child of murdered HOPE, fed on thy heart,

Loved honored friend, I saw thee sink forlorn

Pierced to the soul by cold Neglect's keen dart,

And Penury's hard ills, and pitying Scorn,

And the dark spectre of departed JOY

Inhuman MEMORY. Often on thy grave

Love I the solitary hour to employ

Thinking on other days; and heave the sigh

Responsive, when I mark the high grass wave

Sad sounding as the cold breeze rustles by.