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PREFATORY SONNET.

Nuns fret not at their Convent's narrow room;And Hermits are contented with their Cells;And Students with their pensive Citadels:Maids at the Wheel, the Weaver at his Loom,Sit blithe and happy; Bees that soar for bloom,High as the highest Peak of Furness Fells,Will murmur by the hour in Foxglove bells:In truth, the prison, unto which we doomOurselves, no prison is: and hence to me,In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be boundWithin the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground:Pleas'd if some Souls (for such there needs must be)Who have felt the weight of too much liberty,Should find short solace there, as I have found.
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