Sonnet VI.

Pale Roamer thro' the Night! thou poor forlorn!
Remorse that man on his death-bed possess,
Who in the credulous hour of tenderness
Betrayed, then cast thee forth to Want and scorn!
The World is pityless; the Chaste one's pride,
Mimic of Virtue, scowls on thy distress;
Thy kindred, when they see thee, turn aside,
And Vice alone will shelter Wretchedness!
O! I am sad to think, that there should be
Men, born of woman, who endure to place
Foul offerings on the shrine of Misery,
And force from Famine the caress of Love!
Man has no feeling of thy sore Disgrace:
Keen blows the blast upon the moulting dove!

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