Poem by Mary Robinson

Sonnet 28. Weak Is the Sophistry

Weak is the sophistry, and vain the art
That whispers patience to the mind’s despair!
That bids reflection bathe the wounds of care,
While Hope, with pleasing phantoms, soothes their smart.
For mem’ry still, reluctant to depart
From the dear spot, once rich in prospects fair,
Bids the fond soul enamour’d there,
And its least charm is grateful to the heart!
He never lov’d, who could not muse and sigh,
Spangling the sacred turf with frequent tears,
Where the small rivulet, that ripples by,
Recalls the scenes of past and happier years,
When, on its banks he watch’d the speaking eye,
And one sweet smile o’erpaid an age of fears!

1. Sonnet 38. Oh Sigh
2. Sonnet 41. Yes, I Will Go
3. Ode to Envy
4. Male Fashions for 1799
5. Sonnet 40. On the Low Margin

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