27.08.2014, 12:45
WRITTEN THE NIGHT PRECEDING THE FUNERAL OF MRS. CHARLES BUCKERIDGE.
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.
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.