Anna Seward
He who a tender long-lov'd Wife survives,
Sees himself sunder'd from the only mind
Whose hopes, and fears, and interests, were combin'd,
And blended with his own.—No more she lives!
No more, alas! her death-numb'd ear receives
His thoughts, that trace the Past, or anxious wind
The Future's darkling maze!—His wish refin'd,
The wish to please, exists no more, that gives
The will its energy, the nerves their tone!—
He feels the texture of his quiet torn,
And stopt the settled course that Action drew;
Life stands suspended—motionless—till thrown
By outward causes, into channels new;—
But, in the dread suspense, how sinks the Soul forlorn!