Volume 3 — SONNET LVII. WRITTEN THE NIGHT PRECEDING THE FUNERAL OF MRS CHARLES BUCKERIDGE.[89]

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 hear These solemn warnings from the house of woes; Pondering how late, for young Nerina, there, Joyous, the love-illumin’d morn arose.