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 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.