Sonnet XIV.

A poem by Anna Seward

INGRATITUDE, how deadly is thy smart
Proceeding from the Form we fondly love!
How light, compared, 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 Life 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.

July 1773.

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