On The Death Of Rev. William Benwell, M.A.

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!