Whilst thou wert struggling in the pangs of death.
Could tears have turn'd the tyrant in his course,
Could sighs have check'd his dart's relentless force;
Could youth and virtue claim a short delay,
Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey.
Thou still had'st liv'd, to bless my aching sight,
Thy comrade's honour, and thy friend's delight:
Though low thy lot, since in a cottage born,
No titles did thy humble name adorn,
To me, far dearer, was thy artless love,