Trust poems/ page 11 of 157 /
'Tis true, dear Ben, thy just chastising hand
Hath fix'd upon the sotted age a brand
Through that night he uttered little, rambling were the words he spoke:
And he turned and died in silence, when the tardy morning broke.
Many memories come together whilst in sight of death we dwell,
Much of sweet and sad reflection through the weary mind must well.
As those long hours glided past him, till the east with light was fraught,
Who may know the mournful secret who can tell us what he thought?