Sonnet.
Sharp lightnings flash, tempestuous thunders roll:
I shudder—and yet wherefore? For the dead
Sleep undisturbed in consecrated bed.
And thou, who didst yield up thy sweet, young soul
So mildly to thy Maker, and console.
By dying acts, the hearts which love thee best,
Must, even on this first night, sublimely rest
In thy still sepulchre, by yon green knoll.
Yet one, I know, will tremble as she hears
The storm above her darling; and each dart
Of the forked lightning will to anguish start
A legion of dread shapes and tender fears;
For who can sound the fountains of her tears,
Choice instincts, lodged in her maternal heart?