W.

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SONNET.

(_For the Mirror._)


Say what repays the gamester's nightly toil,
Can hell itself more hideous woes impart?
Can glitt'ring heaps of ill-begotten spoil,
Appease the cravings of his callous heart?
For this alone he severs every tie,
For this he marks unmov'd the orphan's tear,
E'en nature's charms, a smile from beauty's eye
No longer can his blasted prospects cheer.
But now prevails the dice's rattling sound,
The loud blaspheming oath, and cry of woe,
From tables set with spectre forms around,
Hurrying with frantic haste, th' expected throw!
Than this no greater foe to man remains
This is the mightiest triumph Satan gains!

E.L.

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