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


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