But quickly sank, and never more prevail’d. 
   He call’d his friend, and prefaced with a sigh
A lover’s message—­“Thomas, I must die: 
Would I could see my Sally, and could rest
My throbbing temples on her faithful breast,
And gazing go!—­if not, this trifle take,
And say, till death I wore it for her sake: 
Yes!  I must die—­blow on, sweet breeze, blow on! 
Give me one look before my life be gone,
Oh! give me that, and let me not despair,
One last fond look—­and now repeat the prayer.” 
   He had his wish, had more:  I will not paint
The Lovers’ meeting:  she beheld him faint, —
With tender fears, she took a nearer view,
Her terrors doubling as her hopes withdrew;
He tried to smile, and, half succeeding, said,
“Yes!  I must die;” and hope for ever fled. 
   Still long she nursed him:  tender thoughts meantime
Were interchanged, and hopes and views sublime: 
To her he came to die, and every day
She took some portion of the dread away;
With him she pray’d, to him his Bible read,
Soothed the faint heart, and held the aching head: 
She came with smiles the hour of pain to cheer: 
Apart she sigh’d; alone, she shed the tear: 
Then as if breaking from a cloud, she gave
Fresh light, and gilt the prospect of the grave. 
   One day he lighter seemed, and they forgot
The care, the dread, the anguish of their lot;
They spoke with cheerfulness, and seem’d to think,
Yet said not so—­“Perhaps he will not sink:” 
A sudden brightness in his look appear’d,
A sudden vigour in his voice was heard, —
She had been reading in the Book of Prayer,
And led him forth, and placed him in his chair;
Lively he seem’d, and spoke of all he knew,
The friendly many, and the favourite few;
Nor one that day did he to mind recall
But she has treasured, and she loves them all: 
When in her way she meets them, they appear
Peculiar people—­death has made them dear. 
He named his Friend, but then his hand she press’d,
And fondly whisper’d, “Thou must go to rest;”
“I go,” he said:  but as he spoke, she found
His hand more cold, and fluttering was the sound! 
Then gazed affrighten’d; but she caught a last,
A dying look of love,—­and all was past! 
   She placed a decent stone his grave above,
Neatly engraved—­an offering of her love;
For that she wrought, for that forsook her bed,
Awake alike to duty and the dead;
She would have grieved, had friends presum’d to spare
The least assistance—­’twas her proper care. 
   Here will she come, and on the grave will sit,
Folding her arms, in long abstracted fit;
But if observer pass, will take her round,
And careless seem, for she would not be found;
Then go again, and thus her hour employ,
While visions please her, and while woes destroy. 
   Forbear, sweet Maid! nor be by Fancy led,
To hold mysterious converse with the dead;
For sure at length thy thoughts, thy spirit’s pain,
In this sad conflict will disturb thy brain;
All have their tasks and trials; thine are hard,
But short the time, and glorious the reward;
Thy patient spirit to thy duties give,
Regard the dead, but to the living live.