SONNET LVII.

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.