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SONNET.
O! do not pity me because I weep,
For thoughts of heaven are, in grief's darkest day,
Still round me, with a bright, consoling ray.
And still my soul in sacred trust I keep;
Nor would I change this sorrow, which I feel
Now draws me nearer to a Father's love,
For all the joy that happier hearts may prove,
That never tasted suffering:tears may steal
From the tired spirit; memory may revive
The dearer visions of the past; the strife
May end but with this frail and tempted life;—
But not in vain for those high hopes we strive:
Angels, perchance, may watch that conflict here,
To hail us conquerors to then own bright sphere.
For thoughts of heaven are, in grief's darkest day,
Still round me, with a bright, consoling ray.
And still my soul in sacred trust I keep;
Nor would I change this sorrow, which I feel
Now draws me nearer to a Father's love,
For all the joy that happier hearts may prove,
That never tasted suffering:tears may steal
From the tired spirit; memory may revive
The dearer visions of the past; the strife
May end but with this frail and tempted life;—
But not in vain for those high hopes we strive:
Angels, perchance, may watch that conflict here,
To hail us conquerors to then own bright sphere.
