Thou camest with kind looks, when on the brink Almost of death I strove; and, with mild voice Soothing, didst bid my poor heart rejoice, Though smitten sore: oh! I did little think That thou, my friend, wouldst the first victim fall To the stern King of Terrors! Thou didst fly, By pity prompted, at the poor man's cry; And soon thyself were stretched beneath the pall, Livid infection's prey. The deep distress Of her, who best thy inmost bosom knew, To whom thy faith was vowed, thy soul was true, What powers of fault'ring language shall express? As Friendship bids, I feebly paint my own, And sorrowing say, "Poor fellow! thou art gone."
