Sonnet IX

BLEST is yon shepherd, on the turf reclined,Who on the varied clouds which float aboveLies idly gazing——while his vacant mindPours out some tale antique of rural love!Ah! he has never felt the pangs that moveTh' indignant spirit, when with selfish pride,Friends, on whose faith the trusting heart rely'd,Unkindly shun th' imploring eye of woe!The ills they ought to sooth, with taunts deride,And laugh at tears themselves have forced to flow.Nor his rude bosom those fine feelings melt,Children of Sentiment and Knowledge born,Thro' whom each shaft with cruel force is felt,Empoison'd by deceit——or barb'd with scorn.