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 breath Walks forth on the night-wind, the herald of death; His couch is the bier, and the dark weeds of woe Are the curtains which shroud joy's deadliest foe.
