Sonnet CXCVIII.

O cameretta che gi fosti un porto.     HE NO LONGER FINDS RELIEF IN SOLITUDE.         Thou little chamber'd haven to the woes     Whose daily tempest overwhelms my soul!     From shame, I in Heaven's light my grief control;     Thou art its fountain, which each night o'erflows.     My couch! that oft hath woo'd me to repose,     'Mid sorrows vast--Love's iv'ried hand hath stole     Griefs turgid stream, which o'er thee it doth roll,     That hand which good on all but me bestows.     Not only quiet and sweet rest I fly,     But from myself and thought, whose vain pursuit     On pinion'd fancy doth my soul transport:     The multitude I did so long defy,     Now as my hope and refuge I salute,     So much I tremble solitude to court.     WOLLASTON.         Room! which to me hast been a port and shield     From life's rude daily tempests for long years,     Now the full fountain of my nightly tears     Which in the day I bear for shame conceal'd:     Bed! which, in woes so great, wert wont to yield     Comfort and rest, an urn of doubts and fears     Love o'er thee now from those fair hands uprears,     Cruel and cold to me alone reveal'd.     But e'en than solitude and rest, I flee     More from myself and melancholy thought,     In whose vain quest my soul has heavenward flown.     The crowd long hateful, hostile e'en to me,     Strange though it sound, for refuge have I sought,     Such fear have I to find myself alone!     MACGREGOR.