SONNET: TO MRS. —— —— ——

Sweet Lady! in the name of one no more, Both of us loved, and neither can forget, Make me thy brother, though our hearts before, Perchance have never in communion met: Give me thy gentle memories, though there be, Between our forms, some thousand miles of sea, Wild tract, and weary desert: let me still, Whate'er the joy that warms me, or the thrill That tortures, and from which I may not flee— Hold a sweet, sacred place within thy breast! In this, my spirit shall be more than blest; And, in my prayers, if haply prayers of mine Be not a wrong unto a soul like thine, There shall be blessings from the skies for thee.