Low breathing in symphonious melody,
With faint vibrations agitates the chords,
While Friendship’s mourning voice our lot records.
On the cold couch of death our brother sleeps;—
Chill o’er his grave the gale of midnight sweeps.
Oh, Death! if ’tis thy glory to destroy
The fairest opening bud of human joy;
If ’tis thy boast severely to display
And wide diffuse the terrors of thy sway,
High o’er this grave thy proudest trophy rear,