8
Lead back the mind through time’s encumber'd maze
To Egypt’s mourning for her fond first-born,
Or Rama’s wailing for her children slain.
The plague went on—Conjecture ceas’d, for now
All theories seem’d vain—men only fear'd,
Nor knew what 'twas they dreaded! 'Twas fear of fear.
The grave physician, whose best feelings fell
A sacrifice long since, before the shrine
Of motley ills, who fatten’d on disease,
And mark’d with apathetic unconcern
The thousand thousand various forms of pain,
That rack'd the carcase of humanity,
Stood here without one scientific phrase,
Observ'd the ravage of the strange unknown,
Bluntly confess’d his ignorance and awe,
And cross’d his arms, and said "’Tis death! ’tis death!!"
FINIS.
DAVID ARNOT, PRINTER, BEITH.
