Thou Camest With Kind Looks, When On The Brink Almost Of Death I Strove, And With Mild Voice Didst Soothe Me, Bidding My Poor Heart Rejoice, Though Smitten Sore: Oh, I Did Little Think That Thou, My Friend, Wouldst The First Victim Fall To The Stern King Of Terrors! Thou Didst Fly, By Pity Prompted, At The Poor Man'S Cry; And Soon Thyself Were Stretched Beneath The Pall, Livid Infection'S Prey. The Deep Distress Of Her, Who Best Thy Inmost Bosom Knew, To Whom Thy Faith Was Vowed; Thy Soul Was True, What Powers Of Faltering Language Shall Express? As Friendship Bids, I Feebly Breathe My Own, And Sorrowing Say, Pure Spirit, Thou Art Gone!