They still would triumph o’er the proud one’s hate,
Nor yet despairing wildly wish to die.
For who to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
A miserable being e’er resign’d,
Left the dull precincts of the doleful day,
Nor cast one longing, ling’ring look behind?
Still on some breast does ev’ry soul rely,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires,
For distant friends we breathe th’impassion’d sigh,
To tears of Sympathy each wretch aspires.