Sonnet Xxviii: Weak Is The Sophistry

Weak is the sophistry, and vain the art That whispers patience to the mind's despair! That bids reflection bathe the wounds of care, While Hope, with pleasing phantoms, soothes their smart. For mem'ry still, reluctant to depart From the dear spot, once rich in prospects fair, Bids the fond soul enamour'd there, And its least charm is grateful to the heart! He never lov'd, who could not muse and sigh, Spangling the sacred turf with frequent tears, Where the small rivulet, that ripples by, Recalls the scenes of past and happier years, When, on its banks he watch'd the speaking eye, And one sweet smile o'erpaid an age of fears!