SONNET.
WRITTEN IN A WORKHOUSE.
OH, blessed ease! no more of heaven I ask:
The overseer is gone—that vandal elf—
And hemp, unpick’d, may go and hang itself,
While I, untask’d, except with Cowper’s Task,
In blessed literary leisure bask,
And lose the workhouse, saving in the works
Of Goldsmiths, Johnsons, Sheridans, and Burkes;
Eat prose and drink of the Castalian flask;
The themes of Locke, the anecdotes of Spence,
The humorous of Gay, the Grave of Blair—
Unlearned toil, unletter’d labours hence!
But, hark! I hear the master on the stair
And Thomson’s Castle, that of Indolence,
Must be to me a castle in the air.