Soft, modest, melancholy, female, fair!
A theme that rose all pale, and told my soul,
’Twas Night; on her fond hopes perpetual night;
A night which struck a damp, a deadlier damp, 60
Than that which smote me from Philander’s tomb.
Narcissa[12] follows, ere his tomb is closed.
Woes cluster; rare are solitary woes;
They love a train, they tread each other’s heel;
Her death invades his mournful right, and claims
The grief that started from my lids for him: