SONNET XIV.

INGRATITUDE, how deadly is thy smart

Proceeding from the Form we fondly love!

How light, compared, all other sorrows prove!

THOU shed'st a Night of Woe, from whence depart

The gentle beams of Patience, that the heart

‘ Mid lesser ills, illume.— Thy Victims rove

Unquiet as the Ghost that haunts the Grove

Where MURDER spilt the life-blood.— O! thy dart

Kills more than Life,— e'en all that makes Life dear;

Till we “the sensible of pain” wou'd change

For Phrenzy, that defies the bitter tear;

Or wish, in kindred callousness, to range

Where moon-ey'd IDIOCY, with fallen lip,

Drags the loose knee, and intermitting step.