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Lettered inside image: "54 | Where darkness, brooding o'er unfinish'd fates | With raven wing incumbent, waits the day, | Dread day! that interdicts all future change! | That subterranean world, that land of ruin! | Fit walk, LORENZO, for proud human thought! | There let my thought expatiate; and explore | Balsamic truths, and healing sentiments | Of all most wanted, and most welcome here. | For gay LORENZO'S sake, and for thy own | My soul! 'The fruits of dying friends survey; | 'Expose the vain of life; weigh life and death; | 'Give death his eulogy; thy fear subdue; | 'And labour that first palm of noble minds-- | 'A manly scorn of terror from the tomb': | This harvest reap from thy NARCISSA'S grave. | As poets feign'd, from AJAX' streaming blood | Arose, with grief inscribed, a mournful flower; | Let wisdom blossom from my mortal wound. | And first, of dying friends; what fruit from these? | It brings us more than triple aid; an aid | To chase our thoughtlessness, fear, pride, and guilt. | Our dying friends come o'er us like a cloud, | To damp our brainless ardours, and abate | That glare of life which often blinds the wise: | Our dying friends are pioneers, to smooth | Our rugged pass to death; to break those bars | Of terror and abhorrence nature throws | Cross our obstructed way; and thus to make | Welcome as safe our port from every storm: | Each friend by fate snatch'd from us, is a plume."; lower left: "inv & s | WB"; lower right: "London: Pub. Mar. 22. 1797, by R. Edwards, 142, New Bond Street."