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.