ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF DORSET.
1
I heard thy fate without a tear,
Thy loss with scarce a sigh;
And yet thou wast surpassing dear,
Too loved of all to die.
I know not what hath seared my eye—
Its tears refuse to start;
But every drop, it bids me dry,
Falls dreary on my heart.
2
Yes, dull and heavy, one by one,
They sink and turn to care,
As caverned waters wear the stone,
Yet dropping harden there:
They cannot petrify more fast,
Than feelings sunk remain,
Which coldly fixed regard the past,
But never melt again.
