7
The plague went on—and awful numbers died
Of every age, and sex, and rank, and kind,
The matron of threescore—the blooming maid—
The sucking child—the babe within the womb
Died while unborn—the foolish and the wise,
The weak, the strong, the wicked and the good,
The lusty tradesman and the sickly fop,
The child of mis’ry and the man of wealth,
The florid drunkard, and the sage who spurn’d
The dazzling cup that held the poison'd draught;
All ⟨fell⟩ alike before the dreadful scourge.
Died then the virtuous? yea, I knew him well,
A man of stern unbending principle.
With soul untutor’d to the yoke of pow’r,
Unaw’d by wealth or popular renown;
He pray’d and labour’d for the rights of all,
Till ⟨even⟩ int’rest that supinely lulls
The conscience of the high priest and the king
Shrunk from ⟨his⟩ being, as asham’d to meet
Inflexible alliance to the truth.
And he is gone! the voice of heav’n—that breathes
Upon the midnight wind—that sweeps his grave
While I repeat this short expressive dirge
"Peace to his ashes"—seems to say "Amen."
Unhappy village! what art thou become?
Sad emblem of the fleeting things of life!
What bosom bleeds not for thy cureless woes?
Deserted homes, and orphans’ plaintive cries,
And widow’s tears, and deep parental throes,
