SONNET
IV
.
C**s
,
I
hop'd
the
little
heaven
shall
spare
Of
my
short
day
,
which
flits
away
so
fast
,
And
sickness
threats
with
clouds
to
overcast
,
In
social
converse
oft
with
thee
to
share
.
Ill-luck
for
me
,
that
wayward
fate
should
tear
Thee
from
the
haven
thou
had'st
gain'd
at
last
,
Again
to
try
the
toils
and
dangers
past
In
foreign
climates
,
and
an
hostile
air
:
Yet
duteous
to
thy
country's
call
attend
,
Which
claims
a
portion
of
thy
useful
years
,
And
back
with
speed
thy
course
to
Britain
bend
.
If
,
e'er
again
we
meet
,
perchance
should
end
My
dark'ning
eve
,
thou'lt
pay
some
friendly
tears
,
Grateful
to
him
,
who
liv'd
and
dy'd
thy
friend
.