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SONNET.

A lonely Man he was, from whom these laysFlow'd in his cloister'd musings: He in scornHeld them, the unfeeling multitude, who bornFor deeds of nobler purpose, their ripe daysWaste amidst fraudful industry, to raiseInglorious wealth.—But He, life's studious mornGave to the Muse, so best might he adornHis thoughtful brow, with never-dying bays.And well the Muse repay'd him. She hath givenAn unsubstantial world of richer fee;High thoughts, unchanging visions, that the leavenOf earth partake not;—Rich then must he be,Who of this cloudless world, this mortal heaven,Possesseth in his right the Sovereignty.
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