To Laura In Death. Sonnet XXXII.

Quanta invidia ti porto, avara terra.     HE ENVIES EARTH, HEAVEN, AND DEATH THEIR POSSESSION OF HIS TREASURE.         O earth, whose clay-cold mantle shrouds that face,     And veils those eyes that late so brightly shone,     Whence all that gave delight on earth was known,     How much I envy thee that harsh embrace!     O heaven, that in thy airy courts confined     That purest spirit, when from earth she fled,     And sought the mansions of the righteous dead;     How envious, thus to leave my panting soul behind!     O angels, that in your seraphic choir     Received her sister-soul, and now enjoy     Still present, those delights without alloy,     Which my fond heart must still in vain desire!     In her I lived--in her my life decays;     Yet envious Fate denies to end my hapless days.     WOODHOUSELEE.         What envy of the greedy earth I bear,     That holds from me within its cold embrace     The light, the meaning, of that angel face,     On which to gaze could soften e'en despair.     What envy of the saints, in realms so fair,     Who eager seem'd, from that bright form of grace     The spirit pure to summon to its place,     Amidst those joys, which few can hope to share;     What envy of the blest in heaven above,     With whom she dwells in sympathies divine     Denied to me on earth, though sought in sighs;     And oh! what envy of stern Death I prove,     That with her life has ta'en the light of mine,     Yet calls me not,--though fixed and cold those eyes.     WROTTESLEY.