6
And the cold lump of dull unconscious clay.
The plague went on—and oh! what dire distress,
And woe, and lamentation, and despair,
And clouded brows, and melancholy dark,
O'er all the village spread! and still anon
Deep wailings for the dead, and mingled groans
Of agonised life expiring fast
From many a dwelling came. Small sable groups
Round many a door in sullen silence stood,
With hand on mouth to ward contagion’s breath,
All mournful, waiting to convey the corpse
To the lone mansions of the peaceful dead;
Yet none approach'd the bier, save those few friends
Whose sympathy was strong as love of life.
All distant stood—yea, ev’n the Man of God,
He, who alone knew why the people died,
And solv'd the problem with "'Tis heaven’s decree!"
His daily theme of happiness in heaven,
And angel's harp, and glory's diadem,
And righteous hope, that would be realised
With strange unutterable things reserv’d
For all who did believe, had made him deem
Honours and riches, yea, and life itself
Mere ⟨secondary⟩ things, vain trifles, trash,
Vague bubbles, quite unworthy the regard
Of dignified immortal things like man;
Yet even he felt smitten with the dread—
Forgot his calling and his trust in God—
Refus'd to minister the gospel's balm
