TO J. S.
217
xii.
Of Death is blown in every wind;"
For that is not a common chance
That takes away a noble mind.
xiii.
In all our hearts, as mournful light
That broods above the fallen sun,
And dwells in heaven half the night.
xiv.
Cast down her eyes, and in her throat
Her voice seem'd distant, and a tear
Dropt on my tablets as I wrote.
xv.
How should I soothe you anyway,
Who miss the brother of your youth?
Yet something I did wish to say:
