BLEST is yon shepherd, on the turf reclined, <br />Who on the varied clouds which float above <br />Lies idly gazing--while his vacant mind <br />Pours out some tale antique of rural love! <br />Ah! he has never felt the pangs that move <br />Th' indignant spirit, when with selfish pride <br />Friends, on whose faith the trusting heart relied, <br />Unkindly shun th' imploring eye of woe! <br />The ills they ought to soothe with taunts deride, <br />And laugh at tears themselves have forced to flow. <br />Nor his rude bosom those fine feelings melt, <br />Children of Sentiment and Knowledge born, <br />Through whom each shaft with cruel force is felt, <br />Empoison'd by deceit--or barb'd with scorn.<br /><br />Charlotte Smith<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-ix-8/
