(seq. 36)

30

And half counfound, before tis bid to fall,

And mingle with the dust, the sweet repast

For worms to gnaw & on my body feast?

Can ye behold a sight as loathsome grown,

Or hear a dying brothers dying moan,

And not let fall the minglng piteous tear,

That soft compassion rools on brothers dear ~

Rouse all the hero up & strive to brave,

The frightful scene that drops me in the grave,

Where silence reigns & awful gloom abounds,

Where not the voice of sympathy can ne'er resound,

That once could feel & pity raging pain

Or sharp distress that loads a brothers brain,

Why startle thus, tis but a brothers tongue,

That speaks the truth impertinently long,

That scarce can whisper death approaching nigh,

With horror starting in my swimming eye,

That soon will cease to rool with awful dread,