SAPPHO AND PHAON.
SONNET XXVni.
Weak is the sophistry, and vain the art,
That whispers patience to the mind's despair!
That bids reflection bathe the wounds of care.
While hope, with pleasing phantoms, sooths their smart ;
For memory still, reluctant to depart
From the dear spot, once rich in prospects fair,
Bids the fond soul enamoured linger there,
And its least charm is grateful to the heart !
He never loved, who could not muse and sigh,
Spangling the sacred turf with frequent tears,
Where the small rivulet, that ripples by.
Recalls the scenes of past and happier years,
When, on its banks, he watched the speaking eye.
And one sweet smile overpaid an age of fears !