SONNET
[
48
]
XLVIII
.
To
Mrs.
****
.
NO
more
my
wearied
soul
attempts
to
stray
From
sad
Reality
and
vain
Regret
,
Nor
courts
enchanting
Fiction
to
allay
Sorrows
that
Sense
refuses
to
forget
:
For
of
Calamity
so
long
the
prey
,
Imagination
now
has
lost
her
pow'rs
,
Nor
will
her
fairy
loom
again
essay
To
dress
Affliction
in
a
robe
of
flow'rs
.
But
if
no
more
the
bow'rs
of
Fancy
bloom
,
Let
one
superior
scene
attract
my
view
,
Where
Heav'n's
pure
rays
the
sacred
spot
illume
,
Let
thy
lov'd
hand
with
palm
and
am'ranth
strew
The
mournful
path
approaching
to
the
tomb
,
While
Faith's
consoling
voice
endears
the
friendly
gloom
.