In the chill silence of the winter eve, Thro' Lichfield's darken'd streets I bend my way By that sad mansion, where NERINA's Clay Awaits the MORNING KNELL;--and awed perceive, In the late bridal chamber, the clear ray Of numerous lights; while o'er the ceiling stray Shadows of those who frequent pass beneath Round the PALE DEAD.--What sounds my senses grieve! For now the busy hammer's stroke appals, That, “in dread note of preparation,” falls, Closing the sable lid!--With sighs I bear These solemn warnings from the House of Woes; Pondering how late, for young NERINA, there, Joyous, the Love-illumin'd Morn arose. 1: In Lichfield Cathedral the funeral rites are performed early in the Morning. SONNET LVIII. Not the slow Hearse, where nod the sable plumes, The Parian Statue, bending o'er the Urn, The dark robe floating, the dejection worn On the dropt eye, and lip no smile illumes; Not all this pomp of sorrow, that presumes It pays Affection's debt, is due concern To the FOR EVER ABSENT, tho' it mourn Fashion's allotted time. If Time consumes, While Life is ours, the precious vestal-flame Memory shou'd hourly feed;--if, thro' each day, She with whate'er we see, hear, think, or say, Blend not the image of the vanish'd Frame, O! can the alien Heart expect to prove, In worlds of light and life, a reunited love! SONNET LIX. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LADY MARIANNE CARNEGIE, passing her winters at Ethic House on the Coast of Scotland, with her Father, Lord Northesk, who retired thither after the death of his excellent Countess. WRITTEN FEBRUARY 1787. Lady, each soft effusion of thy mind, Flowing thro' thy free pen, shows thee endu'd With taste so just for all of wise, and good, As bids me hope thy spirit does not find, Young as thou art, with solitude combin'd That wish of change, that irksome lassitude, Which often, thro' unvaried days, obtrude On Youth's rash bosom, dangerously inclin'd To pant for more than peace.--Rich volumes yield Their soul-endowing wealth.--Beyond e'en these Shall consciousness of filial duty gild The gloomy hours, when Winter's turbid Seas Roar round the rocks; when the dark Tempest lours, And mourn the Winds round Ethic's lonely towers. SONNET LX.[1]