Sonnet 17. Written in the Ruins of a Monastery
Blest be the day, when superstitious Fear
And holy Fraud receiv'd their fatal wound,
For cloyster'd Guilt's eternal fall renown'd,
To Freedom, Reason, and Religion dear!
Yet envy not the pensive Bard a tear;
As with lone step he treads the hallow'd ground,
Where long the plaintive Arts a refuge found
From feudal Discord, and the barb'rous spear.
Here too the Sage, the boist'rous world resign'd,
His sober eve of life might pass serene,
And undisturb'd his wand'ring thoughts compose:
And hopeless Love might here that silence find.
So dear to grief-worn breasts, and all unseen
Nourish the soft regret, and pour her woes.
And holy Fraud receiv'd their fatal wound,
For cloyster'd Guilt's eternal fall renown'd,
To Freedom, Reason, and Religion dear!
Yet envy not the pensive Bard a tear;
As with lone step he treads the hallow'd ground,
Where long the plaintive Arts a refuge found
From feudal Discord, and the barb'rous spear.
Here too the Sage, the boist'rous world resign'd,
His sober eve of life might pass serene,
And undisturb'd his wand'ring thoughts compose:
And hopeless Love might here that silence find.
So dear to grief-worn breasts, and all unseen
Nourish the soft regret, and pour her woes.
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