The Poetry Corner

Sonnet L.

By Anna Seward

In every breast Affection fires, there dwells A secret consciousness to what degree They are themselves belov'd. - We hourly see Th' involuntary proof, that either quells, Or ought to quell false hopes, - or sets us free From pain'd distrust; - but, O, the misery! Weak Self-Delusion timidly repels The lights obtrusive - shrinks from all that tells Unwelcome truths, and vainly seeks repose For startled Fondness, in the opiate balm, Of kind profession, tho', perchance, it flows To hush Complaint - O! in Belief's clear calm, Or 'mid the lurid clouds of Doubt, we find LOVE rise the Sun, or Comet of the Mind.