Poem by Charlotte Turner Smith

Sonnet 21. Supposed to Written by Werter

GO! cruel tyrant of the human breast!
To other hearts thy burning arrows bear;
Go, where fond hope, and fair illusion rest;
Ah! why should love inhabit with despair!
Like the poor maniac I linger here,
Still haunt the scene where all my treasure lies;
Still seek for flowers where only thorns appear,
'And drink delicious poison from her eyes!'
Tow'rds the deep gulf that opens on my sight
I hurry forward, Passion's helpless slave!
And scorning Reason's mild and sober light,
Pursue the path that leads me to the grave!
So round the flame the giddy insect flies,
And courts the fatal fire by which it dies!

1. Sonnet 85. The Fairest Flowers Are Gone! For Tempests Fell
2. Sonnet 33. To the Naiad of the Arun
3. Sonnet 27. Sighing I See Yon Little Troop at Play
4. Sonnet 66. The Night-Flood Rakes
5. Sonnet 13. From Petrarch (OH! place me where the burning moon)

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