Sonnet (Disease curtails the gathering years of some)

Disease curtails the gathering years of some,
Some fall a rival's enmity beneath,
Sharp steel, or pinion'd-lead sends others home—
Poison and thunder fill the nets of death:
Some are o'erpower'd by wasting pestilence—
The murderer's bloody stroke is some men's doom,
The headsman summons others to the tomb,
But I—am called by love to speed me hence.
Bring back my song, thou listening earth and sea—
Love has for some sweet transports—but for me,
Nothing but sorrowing dreams and wailings drear:
Then pity me, thou outspread arch of heaven—
To some hath love its nuptial blessings given—
To me a grave—a dungeon, and a bier.