Oh! ne'er shall I forget the dreadful hour,
I sheath'd my weapon in thy noble breast;
Thy dying hand clasp'd mine, with feeble pow'r,
And to thy mangled bosom fondly prest.

Whilst o'er thee, I, in speechless anguish hung,
Thou saw'st the wild distraction of my eye;
And, though the chills of death restrain'd thy tongue
Thy bosom heav'd a sympathetic sigh.

With cruel tenderness my friends contriv'd,
To bear me from the drear, polluted shore;
Of every joy, of peace itself depriv'd,
Which this despairing breast shall know no more.

Since this what frenzy has inspir'd my mind!
My tortur'd mem'ry cannot it retrace;
No relique now of former days I find,
But horrors, which e'en madness can't efface.

My dearest brother, and my tenderest friend,
O come, and save me from this dark abyss!
Draw hence the darts which my rack'd bosom rend!
And bear me with you to the realms of bliss!

Ah! whence that pang which smote my shuddering heart?
Where now, for refuge, can lost Anselm fly?
'Tis Death! I know him by his crimson dart!
And, am I fit? Oh heav'ns! I cannot die!