Poem by Anna Seward

Sonnet 94. All is not right with him, who ill sustains

All is not right with him, who ill sustains
    Retirement's silent hours.—Himself he flies,
    Perchance from that insipid equipoise,
    Which always with the hapless mind remains
That feels no native bias; never gains
    One energy of will, that does not rise
    From some external cause, to which he hies
    From his own blank inanity.—When reigns,
With a strong, cultur'd mind, this wretched hate
    To commune with himself, from thought that tells
    Of some lost joy, or dreaded stroke of Fate
He struggles to escape;—or sense that dwells
    On secret guilt towards God, or Man, with weight
    Thrice dire, the self-exiling flight impels.

1. Sonnet 45. From Possibility's dim chaos sprung
2. Sonnet 58. Not the slow Hearse, where nod the sable plumes
3. Sonnet 25. Fortunate Vale! exulting Hill! dear Plain!
4. Sonnet 15. The evening shines in May's luxuriant pride
5. Sonnet 52. Long has the pall of Midnight quench'd the scene

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