Sonnet to Lord Byron
by Elizabeth Cobbold
Is it the sleep of death thy wayward mind
Misnames the loveliest, since it dreams the least?
And can a soul like thine expect to find
In death eternal sleep, and dreamless rest?
Ah! probe tho' sharp the pang, thy erring breast,
Thy talents give that sophist's saw the lie;
Thy feelings wildly tenderly exprest,
Proclaim the heavenly flame that cannot die:
Let reason leech the morbid thoughts that try
To darken all the horrors of the tomb,
And turn to realms of light thy wandering eye
Where pure religion's sun-beams chace the gloom.
So shall unclouded bliss to thee belong,
Immortal too beyond thy own transcendent song.