SONNET LXII.
On the Death of Mr. Robert Lloyd, who, together
with a Brother married, both of them leaving
a Widow, the former with four, and the latter
with three Children, and a Sister unmarried,
died each of them of Fevers, in the short space
of three weeks.
Written 15th November, 1811.
My friend, my brother, no more shall I see
That face affectionate, that face benign,
Those eyes where tenderness did always shine,
Whene'er they turned their gentle beams on me.
If ever Faith, and Generosity,
Love, and Benevolence almost divine,
Forgetfulness of Self, Humility,
Blessed human nature;—Robert, they were thine!
Thy smile,—I see it now,—was kind and sweet
As the first dawnings of an April morn:
Thy warm solicitude each wish to meet,
And catch the struggling meaning ere 'twas born,
No words can emulate! Who o'er thy urn,
Lost friend, like him who lov'd thee most, should mourn?
