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Shall not the muse her tuneful accents raise,
And wake her slumb'ring lyre to sing thy praise?
Here, plung'd in grief, and pensive, and forlorn,
The long-lost objects of my love I mourn;
My dear associates, ravish'd from my breast
By the foul venom of that baneful pest;
While many a blemish cover'd ev'ry face,
Robb'd ev'ry charm, and rifl'd ev'ry grace.
When the dire fiend, which thus, in early bloom,
His victims hurl'd untimely to the tomb,
In all his horrors rises to my view,
How shall I tell what thanks to Heav'n are due?
And due to thee, whose godlike arm repress'd
The lawless rage of that malignant pest;
