In her sad bosom, a tumultuous world
  Of hopes and fears on his dear memory spread;
For fate had not the clouded roll unfurl’d,
  Nor yet with baleful hemlock crown’d her head.

Reflection, oft to sad remembrace brought
  The well-known spot, where they so oft had stray’d;
While fond affection ten-fold ardor caught. 
  And smiling innocence around them play’d.

But these were past! and now the distant bell
  (For deep and pensive thought had held her there)
Toll’d midnight out, with long-resounding knell,
  While dismal echoes quiver’d in the air.

Again ’twas silence—­when from out the gloom,
  She saw, with awe-struck eye, a phantom glide: 
Twas Henry’s form!—­what pencil shall presume
  To paint her horror!—­HENRY AS HE DIED!

Enervate, long she stood—­a sculptur’d dread,
  ’Till waking sense dissolv’d amazement’s chain;
Then home, with timid haste, distracted fled,
  And sunk in dreadful agony of pain.

Not the deep sigh, which madden’d Sappho gave,
  When from Leucate’s craggy height she sprung,
Could equal that which gave her to the grave,
  The last sad sound that echoed from her tongue.

SONNET

ON THE DEATH OF MRS. CHARLOTTE SMITH.

Sweet songstress! whom the melancholy Muse
  With more than fondness lov’d, for thee she strung
  The lyre, on which herself enraptur’d hung,
And bade thee through the world its sweets diffuse. 
Oft hath my childhood’s tributary tear
  Paid homage to the sad, harmonious strain,
  That told, alas, too true, the grief and pain,
Which thy afflicted mind was doom’d to bear. 
  Rest, sainted spirit! from a life of woe,
  And tho’ no friendly hand on thee bestow
The stately marble, or emblazon’d name,
  To tell a thoughtless world who sleeps below;
  Yet o’er thy narrow bed a wreath shall blow,
Deriving vigour from the breath of fame.

TO A FLY,

ON THE BOSOM OF CHLOE, WHILE SLEEPING.

Come away, come away, little fly! 
  Don’t disturb the sweet calm of love’s nest: 
If you do, I protest you shall die,
  And your tomb be that beautiful breast.

Don’t tickle the girl in her sleep,
  Don’t cause so much beauty to sigh;
If she frown, all the Graces will weep;
  If she weep, half the Graces will die.

Pretty fly! do not tickle her so;
  How delighted to teaze her you seem;
Titillation is dangerous, I know,
  And may cause the dear creature to dream.

She may dream of some horrible brute,
  Of some genii, or fairy-built spot;
Or perhaps the prohibited fruit,
  Or perhaps of—­I cannot tell what.

Now she ’wakes! steal a kiss and begone;
  Life is precious; away, little fly! 
Should your rudeness provoke her to scorn,
  You’ll meet death from the glance of her eye.