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Charlotte Smith - Sonnet XXII. By The Same. To Solitude.
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OH, Solitude! to thy sequester`d vale
I come to hide my sorrow and my tears,
And to thy echoes tell the mournful tale
Which scarce I trust to pitying Friendship`s ears.
Amidst thy wild-woods, and untrodden glades,
No sounds but those of melancholy move;
And the low winds that die among thy shades,
Seem like soft Pity`s sighs for hopeless love.
And sure some story of despair and pain,
In yon deep copse, thy murm`ring doves relate;
And, Hark! methinks in that long plaintive strain,
Thine own sweet songstress weeps my wayward fate;
Ah, Nymph! that fate assist me to endure,
And bear awhile--what death alone can cure!
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