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Sonnet 62. Dim grows the vital flame in his dear breast
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!
When this Sonnet was written, the Subject of it had languished three years beneath repeated paralytic strokes, which had greatly enfeebled his limbs, and impaired his understanding. Contrary to all expectation he survived three more years, subject, through their progress, to the same frequent and dreadful attacks, though in their intervals he was serene and apparently free from pain or sickness.
Anna Seward's other poems:
- Sonnet 53. The knell of Whitehead tolls!—his cares are past
- Sonnet 58. Not the slow Hearse, where nod the sable plumes
- Sonnet 25. Fortunate Vale! exulting Hill! dear Plain!
- Sonnet 52. Long has the pall of Midnight quench'd the scene
- Sonnet 41. Since dark December shrouds the transient day
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