[These stanzas, slightly different in form and superscribed " On the Death of the Duke of Dorset," are in the new Murray edition claimed as first published from an autograph manuscript in the possession of Mr. Murray. They have been in print for at least more than half a century.]

I heard thy fate without a tear,
Thy loss with scarce a sigh;
And yet thou wert surpassing dear —
Too loved of all to die.

I know not what hath sear'd mine eye:
The tears refuse to start;
But every drop its lids deny
Falls dreary on my heart.

Yes — deep and heavy, one by one,
They sink, and turn to care;
As cavern'd waters wear the stone,
Yet, dropping, harden there.

They cannot petrify more fast
Than feelings sunk remain,
Which, coldly fix'd, regard the past,
But never melt again.