Sonnet XXXIV

When Death, or adverse Fortune's ruthless gale,

Tears our best hopes away, the wounded Heart

Exhausted, leans on all that can impart

The charm of Sympathy; her mutual wail

How soothing! never can her warm tears fail

To balm our bleeding grief's severest smart;

Nor wholly vain feign'd Pity's solemn art,

Tho' we should penetrate her sable veil.

Concern, e'en known to be assum'd, our pains

Respecting, kinder welcome far acquires

Than cold Neglect, or Mirth that Grief profanes.

Thus each faint Glow-worm of the Night conspires,

Gleaming along the moss'd and darken'd lanes,

To cheer the Gloom with her unreal fires.