Sonnet XXVIII.

Within two days, (if registers tell truth)
I and the nineteenth century were born;
Nor let me lightly such memorial scorn
Of ripen'd manhood and departed youth.
Twin wayfarers are we, although, in sooth,
My pilgrimage will soonest reach the bourn
Whence, saith the adage, travellers ne'er return:
Calm be our final rest, our passage smooth.
My path hath been the pleasanter so far,
Though haply the less busy; all this life
My fellow traveller hath been vext with war,
Fierce change, and dire convulsion, broils and strife.
Be my course govern'd by a milder star,
With Christian hopes and calm affections rife.