When death upon thy fevered brow,
Did think to reap a kiss,
And the mournful tune of the nightingale,
Did long to meet thine lips,
When the baleful moon did shine,
Ever so bright,
Upon thee in the sordid night,
When the gates of heaven and hell,
Swung wide to greet thy face,
The 'witching angels sought to grasp,
The ground beneath thy feet,
So carefully then thy shroud of sleep,
Did grace thine resting head,
And the ardent vapour of death,
Hung o'er thy final bed.
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