The destroyer cometh; his footstep is light,He marketh the threshold of sorrow at night;He steals like a thief o'er the fond one's repose,And chills the warm tide from the heart as it flows.
His throne is the tomb, and a pestilent breathWalks forth on the night-wind, the herald of death;His couch is the bier, and the dark weeds of woeAre the curtains which shroud joy's deadliest foe.
