o <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />THE partial Muse, has from my earliest hours, <br /> Smil'd on the rugged path I'm doom'd to tread, <br />And still with sportive hand has snatch'd wild flowers, <br /> To weave fantastic garlands for my head: <br />But far, far happier is the lot of those <br /> Who never learn'd her dear delusive art; <br />Which, while it decks the head with many a rose, <br /> Reserves the thorn, to fester in the heart. <br />For still she bids soft Pity's melting eye <br /> Stream o'er the ills she knows not to remove, <br />Points every pang, and deepens every sigh <br /> Of mourning friendship or unhappy love. <br />Ah! then, how dear the Muse's favours cost, <br />If those paint sorrow best--who feel it most! <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />o<br /><br />Charlotte Smith<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-i-7/
