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Poem by William Lisle Bowles
Sonnet 9. O Poverty!
O Poverty! though from thy haggard eye, Thy cheerless mein, of every charm bereft. Thy brow, that hope's last traces long have left, Vain Fortune's feeble sons with terror fly; Thy rugged paths with pleasure I attend;Ч For Fancy, that with fairest dreams can bless; And Patience, in the Pall of Wretchedness, Sad-smiling, as the ruthless storms descend; And Piety, forgiving every wrong, And meek Content, whose griefs no more rebel; And Genius, warbling sweet her saddest song; And Pity, list'ning to the poor man's knell, Long banish'd from the world's insulting throng; With Thee, and loveliest Melancholy, dwell.
William Lisle Bowles
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