Dim or destroy those holy thoughts which cling
Round where the forms we loved lie slumbering;
But, not with thee—our slave—whose joys and cares
We deem so grovelling—power nor pride are thine,
Nor our pursuits, nor ties; yet, o'er this grave,
Where lately crowds the form of mourning gave,
I only hear thy low heart-broken whine—
I only see thee left long hours to pine
For him whom thou—if love had power—would'st save!
SONNET II.