Explores, with fearful gaze, each mournful trace
Of lingering sickness in the faded face;
Through the sad night, when every hope is fled,
Keeps her lone vigil by the sufferer’s bed;
And starts each morn, as deeper marks declare
The spoiler’s hand—the blight of death is there!
He comes! now feebly in the exhausted frame,
Slow, languid, quivering, burns the vital flame;
From the glazed eye-ball sheds its parting ray—
Dim, transient spark, that fluttering fades away!