WHEN through the nations stalks contagion wild,We from them cautiously should steal away.
E'en I have oft with ling'ring and delay Shunn'd many an influence, not to be defil'd.
And e'en though Amor oft my hours beguil'd,At length with him preferr'd I not to play,And so, too, with the wretched sons of clay, When four and three-lined verses they compil'd.
But punishment pursues the scoffer straight,As if by serpent-torch of furies ledFrom bill to vale, from land to sea to fly.
I hear the genie's laughter at my fate;
Yet do I find all power of thinking fledIn sonnet-rage and love's fierce ecstasy.
1807-8.
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