Dim grows the vital flame in his dear breast
From whom my life I drew;—and thrice has Spring
Bloom’d; and fierce Winter thrice, on darken’d wing,
Howl’d o’er the gray, waste fields, since he possess’d
Or strength of frame, or intellect.—Now bring
Nor morn, nor eve, his cheerful steps, that press’d
Thy pavement, Lichfield, in the spirit bless’d
Of social gladness. They have failed, and cling
Feebly to the fix’d chair, no more to rise
Elastic!—Ah! my heart forebodes that soon
The Full of Days shall sleep;—nor Spring’s soft sighs,
Nor Winter’s blast awaken him!—Begun
The twilight!—Night is long!—but o’er his eyes
Life-weary slumbers weigh the pale lids down!