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