SONNET.

INGRATITUDE, — how deadly is thy smart,
 Proceeding from the Form we fondly love! 
How light, compar'd, all other sorrows prove! 
Thou shed'st a night of woe, from whence depart
 The gentle beams of patience, that the heart
 'Mid lesser ills illume. — Thy Victims rove
 Unquiet as the Ghost that haunts the grove
 Where MURDER spilt the life-blood. — O! thy dart
 Kills more than life, e'en all that makes it dear;
 Till we the "sensible of pain" wou'd change
 For Phrenzy, that defies the bitter tear,
 Or wish, in kindred callousness, to range
 Where moon-ey'd IDIOCY, with fallen lip,
 Drags the loose knee, and intermitting step.