 | Nugae Canorae |  |
159
SONNET XI.
[As o'er the dying embers oft I cower]
As o'er the dying embers oft I cower,When my tir'd spirits rest, and my heart swells
Lull'd by domestic quiet, Mem'ry dwells
On that blest tide, when thou the evening hour
Didst gladden: while upon th' accustom'd chair
I look, it seems as if Thou wert still there:
Kirtled in snowy apron thy dear knees,
Propt on the fender'd hearth my fancy sees,
O'er which exchanging souls we wont to bend!
And as I lift my head, thy features send
A cheering smile to me—but, in its flight
O'er my rain-pelted sash, a blast of night
Sweeps surlily! starting, my fancy creeps
To the bleak dwelling where thy cold corse sleeps!
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