Sonnet Xxii. Pennyroyal.

HEAVY with cares no winnowing hand could sift, Wrapt in a sadness never to be told, As o'er the fields and through the woods I strolled, Following with restless footstep but the drift Of the still August morn, so I might shift The scenery of my thoughts, and gild their old Monotonous fringes with a light less cold, I found the aromatic herb, whose swift And sweet associations bore me away To boyhood, when beneath an oak like this I culled the fragrant leaves. Crude childhood's bliss Was in the scent; but brighter smiled the day For memories no cold shade could overcast — Safe 'mid the unblighted treasures of the past.