Weak is the sophistry, and vain the art <br />That whispers patience to the mind's despair! <br />That bids reflection bathe the wounds of care, <br />While Hope, with pleasing phantoms, soothes their smart. <br />For mem'ry still, reluctant to depart <br />From the dear spot, once rich in prospects fair, <br />Bids the fond soul enamour'd there, <br />And its least charm is grateful to the heart! <br />He never lov'd, who could not muse and sigh, <br />Spangling the sacred turf with frequent tears, <br />Where the small rivulet, that ripples by, <br />Recalls the scenes of past and happier years, <br />When, on its banks he watch'd the speaking eye, <br />And one sweet smile o'erpaid an age of fears!<br /><br />Mary Darby Robinson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-xxviii-weak-is-the-sophistry/
