Thou camest with kind looks, when on the brink <br />Almost of death I strove, and with mild voice <br />Didst soothe me, bidding my poor heart rejoice, <br />Though smitten sore: Oh, I did little think <br />That thou, my friend, wouldst the first victim fall <br />To the stern King of Terrors! Thou didst fly, <br />By pity prompted, at the poor man's cry; <br />And soon thyself were stretched beneath the pall, <br />Livid infection's prey. The deep distress <br />Of her, who best thy inmost bosom knew, <br />To whom thy faith was vowed; thy soul was true, <br />What powers of faltering language shall express? <br />As friendship bids, I feebly breathe my own, <br />And sorrowing say, Pure spirit, thou art gone!<br /><br />William Lisle Bowles<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-the-death-of-rev-william-benwell-m-a/
