SONNET VIII. THOU gentle Look, that didst my soul beguile, SONNET IX. PALE Roamer through the Night! thou poor Forlorn! Betrayed, then cast thee forth to Want and Scorn! And force from FAMINE the caress of LovE; SONNET X. SWEET Mercy! how my very heart has bled Of purple Pride, that scowls on Wretchedness. He did not so, the GALILEAN mild, Who met the Lazars turned from rich man's doors, And called them Friends, and healed their noisome Sores! SONNET XI. THOU bleedest, my poor HEART! and thy distress Reasoning I ponder with a scornful smile And probe thy sore wound sternly, though the while Why didst thou listen to Hope's whisper bland? Even as a Mother her sweet infant heir That wan and sickly droops upon her breast! VOL. I. SONNET XII. TO THE AUTHOR OF THE 66 ROBBERS." SCHILLER! that hour I would have wished to die, Could I behold thee in thy loftier mood Wandering at eve with finely frenzied eye Beneath some vast old tempest-swinging wood! |