Sonnet LIX

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

LADY MARIANNE CARNEGIE

Lady, each soft effusion of thy mind,

Flowing thro' thy free pen, shows thee endu'd

With taste so just for all of wise, and good,

As bids me hope thy spirit does not find,

Young as thou art, with solitude combin'd

That wish of change, that irksome lassitude,

Which often, thro' unvaried days, obtrude

On Youth's rash bosom, dangerously inclin'd

To pant for more than peace.—Rich volumes yield

Their soul-endowing wealth.—Beyond e'en these

Shall consciousness of filial duty gild

The gloomy hours, when Winter's turbid Seas

Roar round the rocks; when the dark Tempest lours,

And mourn the Winds round Ethic's lonely towers.