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.