Now his thrilling accents die--
His shape eludes my searching eye--
But who is he[A], convuls'd with pain,
That writhes in every swelling vein?
Yet in so deep, so wild a groan,
A sharper anguish seems to live
Than life's expiring pang can give:--
He dies deserted, and alone--
If pity can allay thy woes
Sad spirit they shall find repose--
Thy friend, thy long-lov'd friend is near!
He comes to pour the parting tear,
He comes to catch the parting breath--
Ah heaven! no melting look he wears,
His alter'd eye with vengeance glares;
Each frantic passion at his soul,
'Tis he has dash'd that venom'd bowl
With agony, and death.
[A] Sir Thomas Overbury, poisoned in the Tower by Somerset.