What earthly tongue, and, oh! what human pen
Can tell that scene of suffering, too severe.
'Tis ever present to my sight, oh! when
Will the sound cease its torture on mine ear?

Oh! my lost love, thou patient Being, never!
Thy dying look of love can I forget;
The last fond pressure of thy hand, for ever!
Thrills in my veins, I see thy struggles yet.

Thy sculptured beauty is before me now:
In thy calm dignity, and sweet repose,
Alas! sad memory re-invests thy brow,
With death's stern agony, and pain's last throes.

Desolate heart be still--forgive, oh God!
The cries of feeble nature stricken sore.
Father! assuage the terrors of thy rod.
Teach me to see thy wisdom--and adore!



Thomas Gent