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ELEGIAC SONNETS.
SONNET XVIII.
TO THE EARL OF EGREMONT.
WYNDHAM! 'tis not thy blood, tho' pure it runs
Through a long line of glorious ancestry,
Percys and Seymours, Britain's boasted sons,
Who trust the honors of their race to thee:
'Tis not thy splendid domes, where Science loves
To touch the canvas, and the bust to raise;
Thy rich domains, fair fields, and spreading groves;
'Tis not all these the Muse delights to praise:
In birth, and wealth, and honours, great thou art!
But nobler in thy independent mind;
And in that liberal hand and feeling heart
Given thee by Heaven—a blessing to mankind!
Unworthy oft may titled fortune be;
A soul like thineis true Nobility!
