'T WAS the deep groan of death
That struck the' affrighted ear!
The momentary breeze—the vital breath—
Expiring sunk!—Let Friendship's holy tear
Embalm her dead, as low he lies.—
To weep another's fate, oft teaches to be wise.

Wisdom! set the portal wide—
Call the young, and call the vain,
Hither lure presuming Pride,
With Hope mistrustless at her side,
And Wealth, that chance defies, and greedy thirst of Gain.

Call the group, and fix the eye—
Show how awful 'tis to die—
Show the portrait in the dust:—
Youth may frown—the picture's just—
And though each nerve resists—yet yield at length they must.

Where's the visage, that awhile
Glow'd with glee and rosy smile?
Trace the corpse—the likeness seek—
No likeness will you own:
Pale's the once social cheek,
And wither'd round the ghastly bone.

Where are the beamy orbs of sight,
The windows of the soul?
No more with vivid ray they roll—
Their suns are set in night.

Where's the heart, whose vital power
Beat with honest rapture high—
That joy'd in many a friendly hour,
And gave to misery many a sigh?—

Froze to a stone!—And froze the hand
Whose grasp affection warm convey'd;
Whose bounty fed the suppliant band,
And nourish'd Want with timely aid.

Ah! what remains to bring relief—
To silence agonizing grief—
To soothe the breast in tempest tost,
That thrilling wails in vain the dear companion lost?

'Tis the departed worth, though sure
To gash the wound, that works the cure:—
'Tis Merit's gift alone to bloom
O'er the dread horrors of the tomb;
To dry the mourner's pious stream,
And soften sorrow to esteem.

Does Ambition toil to raise
Trophies to immortal praise?
Trust not, though strong her passions burn,
Trust not the marble's flattering style,
—Though Art's best skill engrave the urn—
Time's cankering tooth shall fret the pile.—