82
VERSES.
VERSES,
ON THE DEATH OF THE SAME LADY, WRITTEN
IN SEPTEMBER, 1794.
LIKE a poor ghost the night I seek;
Its hollow winds repeat my sighs;
The cold dews mingle on my cheek
With tears that wander from mine eyes.
The thorns that still my couch molest,
Have robb'd these heavy eyes of sleep;
But tho' deprived of tranquil rest,
I here at last am free to weep.
