Our dying friends come o’er us like a cloud,

To damp our brainless ardours; and abate

That glare of life, which often blinds the wise.

Our dying friends are pioneers, to smooth 280

Our rugged pass to death; to break those bars

Of terror, and abhorrence, nature throws

Cross our obstructed way; and, thus to make

Welcome, as safe, our port from every storm.

Each friend by fate snatch’d from us, is a plume

Pluck’d from the wing of human vanity,