Sonnet Ii. On A Discovery Made Too Late

Thou bleedest, my poor heart! and thy distress Reas'ning I ponder with a scornful smile And probe thy sore wound sternly, tho' the while Swollen be mine eye and dim with heaviness. Why didst thou listen to Hope's whisper bland? Or list'ning, why forget the healing tale, When Jealousy with fev'rish fancies pale Jarred thy fine fibres with a maniac's hand? Faint was that Hope, and rayless!--Yet 'twas fair, And soothed with many a dream the hour of rest: Thou shouldst have loved it most, when most opprest, And nursed it with an agony of care, Even as a Mother her sweet infant heir, That wan and sickly droops upon her breast!