Or mind not how there may be made
A thankful use of what we had.
Wither.
Beside the bed where parting life was laid,
And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dismay’d,
The reverend champion stood. At his control,
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul:
Comfort came down, the trembling wretch to raise,
And his last, faltering accents whisper’d praise.
Goldsmith.