Originally published in The Casket of Flowers of Literature, Wit and Sentiment (Samuel C. Atkinson) #5 (May 1828).
Behold that weak, deluded man,
Pressed on by vengeance dire,
With rage enkindling in his breast,
An eye of rolling fire.
Swift to false honor's field he flies,
His valour to display,
To meet his once lov'd bosom-friend
In horrid, murd'rous fray.
When on the ground, each well prepared,
The signal is proclaim'd,
With powerless and trembling arm,
The deadly weapons aim'd.
He falls—what tortures now pervade
The sad, surviving breast;
The slaughter'd victim's frightful shade
Will never let him rest.
It haunts his mind both night and day,
He knows not where to fly,
And thro' life weighed down by sorrow,
In sorrow does he die.