With Mitchel, hapless youth! thy corse had lain,
Pale and unburied on that fatal plain;
Where torn from early life’s alluring charms,
When hope incites us, and when pleasure warms;
Unnoted, cold, the wretched sufferer lies,
And sleep eternal seals his weeping eyes.
Where now the prospects youth and fortune gave,
A life of honour, a distinguish’d grave?
In hopeless dark oblivion sunk away,
The faint short radiance of a winter’s day!