No true affection nor no friendly tear;
Spurn'd at by friends, and scorned at by the great;
And all that poverty can bring is here.
Then hail thou grateful visitant, oh death,
And stop the troubled ocean of my breast:
Lull the rude waves; nor let my parting breath
E'er cause a sigh, or break one moment's rest.
Then when my clay-cold form shall bid adieu,
Hid in its parent's bosom, kindred earth,
Let not the errors e'er appear in view,