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157

SONNET IX.

[When from my dreary home I first mov'd on]

When from my dreary home I first mov'd on,
After my Friend was in her grave-clothes drest,
A dim despondence on my spirit prest,
As all my pleasant days were come and gone!
Strange whispers parted from th' entombing clay,
The thin air murmur'd, each dumb object spake,
Bidding my overwhelmed bosom ache:
Oft did I look to Heaven, but could not pray!
“How shall I leave thee, quiet scene?” said I,
“How leave the passing breeze that loves to sweep
“The holy sod where my due footsteps creep?
“The passing breeze? 'Twas She! The Friend pass'd by!”
But the time came; the passing breeze I left;
“Farewell!” I sigh'd, and seem'd of all bereft!