And the dark incendiary goes through the night
With a fierce and wicked joy;
The wealth and the food which he may not share,
He will at least destroy.
The wind, the wind, it comes from the sea,
With a wailing sound it passed;
'Tis soft and mild for a winter's wind,
And yet there is death on the blast.
From the south to the north hath the Cholera come,
He came like a despot king;
He hath swept the earth with a conqueror's step,
And the air with a spirit's wing.
We shut him out with a girdle of ships,
And a guarded quarantine;
What ho! now which of your watchers slept?
The Cholera's past your line!
There's a curse on the blessed sun and air,
What will ye do for breath?
For breath, which was once but a word for life,
Is now but a word for death.
Wo for affection! when love must look
On each face it loves with dread—
Kindred and friends—when a few brief hours
And the dearest may be the dead!
