SONNET.

NOT with condition has it been my lot

To strive, nor soul-awakening want defy,

In contests where, though well 't were joy to die,

To live is Fame. Nay, Fortune hath forgot

To leave my door unvisited, yet not

To crush me with a lavish hand; for I

See golden hours each hourly need supply,

And, each to each, new benefits allot.

And yet how long, ye blessings, and how long,

Ye mercies without mercy, would ye hold

My spirit fettered? for my soul is free,

And, bursting from your bonds than death more strong,

Shall rise alone, or raise me to behold

Regions unreached save through adversity.

H. G. C.