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.
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