Here on the young its fury spent, When red with blood the river rolled. WRITTEN IN A SICK CHAMBER. 1793. THERE, in that bed so closely curtained round, He stirs yet still he sleeps. May heavenly dreams Long o'er his smoothed and settled pillow rise; Nor fly, till morning thro' the shutter streams, And on the hearth the glimmering rush-light dies. TO AH! little thought she, when, with wild delight, That in her veins a secret horror slept, That her light footsteps should be heard no more, Yet round her couch indulgent Fancy drew There didst thou stand-there, with the smile she knew; And now to thee she comes; still, still the same Nor less, less oft, as on that day, appears, * On the death of her sister. |