SONNET.

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WALTON! when, weary of the world, I turn
My pensive soul to thee, I soothing find
The meekness of thy plain contented mind
Act like some healing charm. From thee I learn
To sympathize with nature, nor repine

At Fortune who, tho' lavish of her store,
Too often leaves her favorites richly poor,
Wanting both health and energy divine,
Life's blessings to enjoy. Methinks ev'n now

I hear thee 'neath the milk-white scented thorn
Communing with thy pupil, as the morn
Her rosy cheek displays,—while streams that flow,
And all that gambol near their rippling source,
Enchanted listen to thy sweet discourse.

EDWARD ΜΟΣΟΝ.

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