Sonnet. As one who late hath lost a friend adored, Clings with sick pleasure to the faintest trace Resemblance offers in another's face, Or sadly gazing on that form deplored, Would clasp the silent canvas to his breast: So muse I on the good I have enjoyed, The wretched victim of my hopes destroyed; On images of peace I fondly rest, Or in the page, where weeping fancy mourns, I love to dwell upon each tender line, And think the bliss once tasted still is mine; While cheated memory to the past returns, And, from the present leads my shivering heart Back to those scenes from, which it wept to part.