Volume 7 — Sonnet.
Reading edition
Sharp lightnings flash, tempestuous thunders roll: I shudder—and yet wherefore? For the dead Sleep undisturbed in consecrated bed. And thou, who didst yield up thy sweet, young soul So mildly to thy Maker, and console. By dying acts, the hearts which love thee best, Must, even on this first night, sublimely rest In thy still sepulchre, by yon green knoll. Yet one, I know, will tremble as she hears The storm above her darling; and each dart Of the forked lightning will to anguish start A legion of dread shapes and tender fears; For who can sound the fountains of her tears, Choice instincts, lodged in her maternal heart?