Sonnet XLI

IN this tumultuous sphere, for thee unfit,How seldom art thou found—Tranquillity!Unless 'tis when with mild and downcast eyeBy the low cradles thou delight'st to sitOf sleeping infants——watching the soft breath,And bidding the sweet slumberers easy lie;Or sometimes hanging o'er the bed of death,Where the poor languid sufferer——hopes to die.Oh, beauteous sister of the halcyon peace!I sure shall find thee in that heavenly sceneWhere Care and Anguish shall their power resign;Where hope alike, and vain regret shall cease,And Memory—lost in happiness serene,Repeat no more—that misery has been mine!