Written December 1783

And slow disease preyed on thy wasted frame;When every friend, ev'n like thy bloom, was fled,And Want bowed low thy unsupported head;Sure sad Humanity a tear might give,And Virtue say, Live, beauteous sufferer, live!But should there one be found, (amidst the fewWho with compassion thy last pangs might view),One who beheld thy errors with a tear,To whom the ruins of thy heart were dear,Who fondly hoped, the ruthful season past,Thy faded virtues might revive at last;Should such be found--oh! when he saw thee lie,Closing on every earthly hope thine eye;When he beheld despair, with rueful trace,Mark the strange features of thy altered face;When he beheld, as painful death drew nigh,Thy pale, pale cheek, thy feebly lifted eye,Thy chill, shrunk hand, hung down as in despair,Or slowly raised, with many a muttered prayer;--When thus, in early youth, he saw thee bendPoor to the grave, and die without a friend;Some sadder feelings might unbidden start,And more than common pity touch his heart!The eventful scene is closed; with pausing dreadAnd sorrow I drew nigh the silent bed;Thy look was calm--thy heart was cold and still,As if the world had never used it ill;Methought the last faint smile, with traces weak,Still seemed to linger on thy faded cheek.Poor Mary! though most beauteous in thy face,Ere sorrow touched it, beamed each lovely grace;Yet, oh! thy living features never woreA look so sweet, so eloquent before,As this, which bids all human passions cease,And tells my pitying heart you died in peace!