Let Reason Leech the Morbid Thoughts

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.