Thy face serene, I found relief,
In sweet complaint to pour my grief.
For throbs, alas! my breast with pain,
Consumption’s wounds to bear;
And pales my cheek, as thou must wane
Beneath the morning’s glare.
When I shall sink, grant this my prayer,
That thy light ne’er to shine defer,
On thy friend’s humble sepulchre.
But, hark! what dulcet notes arise