A plangent Spenserian sonnet by the editor of the Poetical Register, Richard Alfred Davenport.
Yes, it is true, I uttered not my tale;
But, didst thou never hear the bitter sighs
That swelled my breast, ne'er see what deadly pale
Stole o'er my cheek, how often to mine eyes,
Spite of myself, the grief-wrung tears would rise,
When, by thy side, some youth than me more bold,
More blest in all those charms that wealth supplies,
With ready tongue his artful story told?
Hast thou not seen my passion, ill-controuled,
For thee in thousand nameless actions shewn?
Seen that in others nought could I behold?
That still I spoke, moved, breathed for thee alone?
And might not these have taught thee, far above
The feeble power of words, my matchless love?