On the Death of the Duke of Dorset

I heard thy fate without a tear,
Thy loss with scarce a sigh;
And yet thou wast surpassing dear,
Too loved of all to die.
I know not what hath seared my eye—
Its tears refuse to start;
But every drop, it bids me dry,
Falls dreary on my heart.

Yes, dull and heavy, one by one,
They sink and turn to care,
As caverned waters wear the stone,
Yet dropping harden there;
They cannot petrify more fast,
Than feelings sunk remain,
Which coldly fixed regard the past,
But never melt again.