DEATH OF A FRIEND.
205
Self-sacrificing, upright, pure,
Of feeble hope the guide,
With judgment clear, a soul subdued,
And wealth without its pride,
The widow in her lowly cell
Must long thy loss deplore,
The orphans wait thy step in vain,
Thou com'st to them no more.
The path of duty and of zeal,
Who now, like thee, shalt tread?
And deeply for ourselves we mourn
That thou art of the dead.
