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 41. Since dark December shrouds the transient day
2. Sonnet 32. Behold him now his genuine colours wear
3. Sonnet 65. Marcellus, since the ardors of my strain
4. Sonnet 89. Yon late but gleaming Moon, in hoary light
5. Sonnet 85. March, tho' the Hours of promise with bright ray

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