Sonnet
When I sit musing on the chequer’d past
(A term much darken’d with untimely woes),
My thoughts revert to her, for whom still flows
The tear, though half disown’d; and binding fast
Pride’s stubborn cheat to my too yielding heart,
I say to her she robb’d me of my rest,
When that was all my wealth. ’Tis true my breast
Received from her this wearying, lingering smart;
Yet, ah! I cannot bid her form depart;
Though wrong’d, I love her—yet in anger love,
For she was most unworthy.—Then I prove
Vindictive joy; and on my stern front gleams,
Throned in dark clouds, inflexible....
The native pride of my much injured heart.