ON THE DEATH OF THE REV. WILLIAM BENWELL, M. A.

By William Lisle Bowles

Thou camest with kind looks, when on the brink

Almost of death I strove, and with mild voice

Didst soothe me, bidding 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 faltering language shall express?

As friendship bids, I feebly breathe my own,

And sorrowing say, Pure spirit, thou art gone!