Sonett-Forum

Alone, unfriended, on a foreign shore,
Behold an hapless, melancholy maid,
Begging her scanty fare from door to door,
With piteous voice, and humbly bended head.

Alas! her native tongue is known to few;
Her manners and her garb excite surprice;
The vulgar stare to see her bid adieu;
Her tattered garments fix their curious eyes.

Cease, cease your laugh, ye thoughtless vain;
Why sneer at yon poor Indian's pain?
'Tis natur's artless voice that speaks: -

Behold! the tear, bedew her cheeks!
Imploring actions, - bursting sighs,
Reveal enough to British eyes!