Sonnet LVII. Written The Night Preceding The [1]Funeral Of Mrs. Charles Buckeridge.

In the chill silence of the winter eve,
    Thro' Lichfield's darken'd streets I bend my way
    By that sad mansion, where NERINA's Clay
    Awaits the MORNING KNELL; - and awed perceive,
In the late bridal chamber, the clear ray
    Of numerous lights; while o'er the ceiling stray
    Shadows of those who frequent pass beneath
    Round the PALE DEAD. - What sounds my senses grieve!
For now the busy hammer's stroke appals,
    That, "in dread note of preparation," falls,
    Closing the sable lid! - With sighs I bear
These solemn warnings from the House of Woes;
    Pondering how late, for young NERINA, there,
    Joyous, the Love-illumin'd Morn arose.

1: In Lichfield Cathedral the funeral rites are performed early in the Morning.

Anna Seward

Anna Seward was an English Romantic poet often called the 'Swan of Lichfield'. She was known for both her poetry and her extensive letter writing, which provided insight into 18th-century literary life. Seward was a steadfast critic of the neoclassicism that dominated much of the contemporary poetry scene, favoring a Romantic approach that sought to capture emotion and natural beauty. Her works often revolved around themes of love, loss, and nature. She was also a close friend of writers such as Erasmus Darwin and Samuel Johnson.

Anna Seward

Odes From Horace. - [1]To The Fountain Of Blandusia. Book The Third, Ode The Thirteenth.

Anna Seward, Simple Poetry

Odes From Horace. - To [1]Munatius Plancus. Book The First, Ode The Seventh.

Anna Seward, Simple Poetry

Sonnet LXVII. On Doctor Johnson's Unjust Criticisms In His Lives Of The Poets[1].

Anna Seward, Simple Poetry

Sonnet XXXVII. Autumn.

Anna Seward, Simple Poetry

English

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Sonnet XLVI.

Dark as the silent stream beneath the night,
    Thy funeral glides to Life's eternal home,
    Child of its narrow house! - how late the bloom,
    The facile smile, the soft eye's crystal light,
Each grace of Youth's gay morn, that charms our sight,
    Play'd o'er that Form! - now sunk in Death's cold gloom,
    Insensate! ghastly! - for the yawning tomb,
    Alas! fit Inmate. - Thus we mourn the blight
Of Virgin-Beauty, and endowments rare
    In their glad hours of promise. - O! when Age
    Drops, like the o'er-blown, faded rose, tho' dear
Its long known worth, no stormy sorrows rage;
    But swell when we behold, unsoil'd by time,
    Youth's broken Lily perished in its prime.

Anna Seward

Sonnet LVIII.

Not the slow Hearse, where nod the sable plumes,
    The Parian Statue, bending o'er the Urn,
    The dark robe floating, the dejection worn
    On the dropt eye, and lip no smile illumes;
Not all this pomp of sorrow, that presumes
    It pays Affection's debt, is due concern
    To the FOR EVER ABSENT, tho' it mourn
    Fashion's allotted time. If Time consumes,
While Life is ours, the precious vestal-flame
    Memory shou'd hourly feed; - if, thro' each day,
    She with whate'er we see, hear, think, or say,
Blend not the image of the vanish'd Frame,
    O! can the alien Heart expect to prove,
    In worlds of light and life, a reunited love!

Anna Seward

Sonnet VI. Written At Lichfield, In An Eastern Apartment Of The Bishop's Palace, Which Commands A View Of Stow Valley.

In this chill morning of a wintry Spring
    I look into the gloom'd and rainy vale;
    The sullen clouds, the stormy winds assail,
    Lour on the fields, and with impetuous wing
Disturb the lake: - but Love and Memory cling
    To their known scene, in this cold influence pale;
    Yet priz'd, as when it bloom'd in Summer's gale,
    Ting'd by his setting sun. - When Sorrows fling,
Or slow Disease, thus, o'er some beauteous Form
    Their shadowy languors, Form, devoutly dear
    As thine to me, HONORA, with more warm
And anxious gaze the eyes of Love sincere
    Bend on the charms, dim in their tintless snow,
    Than when with health's vermilion hues they glow.

Anna Seward

Sonnet LXII.

[1]Dim grows the vital flame in his dear breast
    From whom my life I drew; - and thrice has Spring
    Bloom'd; and fierce Winter thrice, on darken'd wing,
    Howl'd o'er the grey, waste fields, since he possess'd
Or strength of frame, or intellect. - - Now bring
    Nor Morn, nor Eve, his cheerful steps, that press'd
    Thy pavement, LICHFIELD, in the spirit bless'd
    Of social gladness. They have fail'd, and cling
Feebly to the fix'd chair, no more to rise
    Elastic! - Ah! my heart forebodes that soon
    The FULL OF DAYS shall sleep; - nor Spring's soft sighs,
Nor Winter's blast awaken him! - Begun
    The twilight! - Night is long! - but o'er his eyes
    Life-weary slumbers weigh the pale lids down!

1: When this Sonnet was written, the Subject of it ...

Anna Seward

Sonnet XCVII. To A Coffin-Lid.

Thou silent Door of our eternal sleep,
    Sickness, and pain, debility, and woes,
    All the dire train of ills Existence knows,
    Thou shuttest out FOR EVER! - Why then weep
This fix'd tranquillity, - so long! - so deep!
    In a dear FATHER's clay-cold Form? - where rose
    No energy, enlivening Health bestows,
    Thro' many a tedious year, that us'd to creep
In languid deprivation; while the flame
    Of intellect, resplendent once confess'd,
    Dark, and more dark, each passing day became.
Now that angelic lights the SOUL invest,
    Calm let me yield to thee a joyless Frame,
    THOU SILENT DOOR OF EVERLASTING REST.

Lichfield, March 1790.

Anna Seward

Sonnet C. Written December 1790.

Lyre of the Sonnet, that full many a time
    Amus'd my lassitude, and sooth'd my pains,
    When graver cares forbade the lengthen'd strains,
    To thy brief bound, and oft-returning chime
A long farewell! - the splendid forms of Rhyme
    When Grief in lonely orphanism reigns,
    Oppress the drooping Soul. - DEATH's dark domains
    Throw mournful shadows o'er the Aonian clime;
For in their silent bourne my filial bands
    Lie all dissolv'd; - and swiftly-wasting pour
    From my frail glass of life, health's sparkling sands.
Sleep then, my LYRE, thy tuneful tasks are o'er,
    Sleep! for my heart bereav'd, and listless hands
    Wake with rapt touch thy glowing strings no more!

Anna Seward