Sonnet IV: To Poverty by Amos Simon Cottle

Low in a barren vale I see thee sit
Cowering, while Winter blows his shivering blast,
Over thy reedy fire—pale, comfortless!
Blest independence, with elastic foot,
Spurns thy low dwelling, whilst the sons of joy
Turn from thy clouded brow, or, with a scowl,
Contemptuous, mark thee. At thy elbow stand
Famine and wan disease! two meagre forms,
Thy only visitants, who, though repelled,
Officious tend thee—wretched eremite!
Around thy cell, ah! wherefore see I graved
The sacred names of genius? Spenser here
Found his last refuge! Otway! Butler, too!
And Scotia’s last, not least, heroic bard!

From: Cottle, Joseph, Malvern Hills, with Minor Poems, and Essays, Fourth Edition, Volume the Second, 1829, T. Cadell: London, p. 266.
(https://books.google.com.au/books?q=sonnet+iv&id=9ZgXAAAAYAAJ)

Date: 1829 (published)

By: Amos Simon Cottle (1766-1800)

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