Sonnet XXII

O SOLITUDE! to thy sequester'd valeI come to hide my sorrow and my tears,And to thy echoes tell the mournful taleWhich 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!