Sonnet XCVIII

Since my griev'd mind some energy regains,

Industrious habits can, at times, repress

The weight of filial woe, the deep distress

Of life-long separation; yet its pains,

Oft do they throb along these fever'd veins.—

My rest has lost its balm, the fond caress

Wont the dear aged forehead to impress

At midnight, as he slept;—nor now obtains

My uprising the blest news, that cou'd impart

Joy to the morning, when its dawn had brought

Some health to that weak Frame, o'er which my heart

With fearful fondness yearn'd, and anxious thought.—

Time, and the Hope that robs the mortal Dart

Of its fell sting, shall cheer me—as they ought.