SONNET LXII.

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 grey, 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 fail'd, 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!