Sonnet
.
As
one
who
late
hath
lost
a
friend
adored
,
Clings
with
sick
pleasure
to
the
faintest
trace
Resemblance
offers
in
another's
face
,
Or
sadly
gazing
on
that
form
deplored
,
Would
clasp
the
silent
canvas
to
his
breast
:
So
muse
I
on
the
good
I
have
enjoyed
,
The
wretched
victim
of
my
hopes
destroyed
;
On
images
of
peace
I
fondly
rest
,
Or
in
the
page
,
where
weeping
fancy
mourns
,
I
love
to
dwell
upon
each
tender
line
,
And
think
the
bliss
once
tasted
still
is
mine
;
While
cheated
memory
to
the
past
returns
,
And
,
from
the
present
leads
my
shivering
heart
Back
to
those
scenes
from
,
which
it
wept
to
part
.