The' infected city pour'd her hurrying swarms:
Roused by the flames that fired her seats around,
The' infected country rush'd into the town.
Some, sad at home, and in the desert some,
Abjured the fatal commerce of mankind;
In vain: where'er they fled the Fates pursued.
Others, with hopes more specious, cross'd the main,
To seek protection in far distant skies;
But none they found. It seem'd the general air,
From pole to pole, from Atlas to the east,
Was then at enmity with English blood.
For, but the race of England, all were safe
In foreign climes; nor did this Fury taste
The foreign blood which England then contain’d.
Where should they fly? The circumambient heaven
Involved them still; and every breeze was bane.
Where find relief? The salutary art
Was mute; and, startled at the new disease,
In fearful whispers hopeless omens gave.
To Heaven with suppliant rites they sent their prayers;
Heaven heard them not. Of every hope deprived;
Fatigued with vain resources, and subdued
With woes resistless and enfeebling fear,
Passive they sunk beneath the weighty blow.
Nothing but lamentable sounds was heard,
Nor aught was seen but ghastly views of death.
Infectious horror ran from face to face,
And pale despair. 'Twas all the business then
To tend the sick, and in their turns to die.
In heaps they fell: and oft one bed, they say,
The sickening, dying, and the dead, contain❜d.
Ye guardian gods, on whom the fates depend
Of tottering Albion! ye eternal fires
That lead through heaven the wandering year! ye powers
That o'er the' encircling elements preside!
May nothing worse than what this age has seen
Arrive! Enough abroad, enough at home
Has Albion bled. Here a distemper'd heaven
Has thinn'd her cities; from those lofty cliffs
That awe proud Gaul, to Thule's wintry reign;
While in the west, beyond the' Atlantic foam,
Her bravest sons, keen for the fight, have died
The death of cowards and of common men:
Sunk void of wounds, and fallen without renown.
But from these views the weeping Muses turn,
And other themes invite my wandering song.
THE choice of aliment, the choice of air,
The use of toil and all external things,
Already sung; it now remains to trace
What good, what evil from ourselves proceeds:
And how the subtle principle within
Inspires with health, or mines with strange decay
The passive body. Ye poetic shades,
Who know the secrets of the world unseen,
Assist my song! For, in a doubtful theme
Engaged, I wander through mysterious ways.
There is, they say (and I believe there is)
A spark within us of the' immortal fire,
That animates and moulds the grosser frame;
And, when the body sinks, escapes to heaven,
Its native seat, and mixes with the gods.
Meanwhile this heavenly particle pervades
The mortal elements; in every nerve
It thrills with pleasure, or grows mad with pain:
And, in its secret conclave, as it feels
The body's woes and joys, this ruling power
Wields at its will the dull material world,
And is the body's health or malady.
By its own toil the gross corporeal frame
Fatigues, extenuates, or destroys itself.
Nor less the labours of the mind corrode
The solid fabric: for by subtle parts
And viewless atoms, secret Nature moves
The mighty wheels of this stupendous world.
By subtle fluids pour'd through subtle tubes
The natural, vital functions are perform'd.
By these the stubborn aliments are tamed;
The toiling heart distributes life and strength;
These the still-crumbling frame rebuild; and these
Are lost in thinking, and dissolve in air.
But 'tis not thought (for still the soul's employ'd),
'Tis painful thinking that corrodes our clay.
All day the vacant eye, without fatigue,
Strays o'er the heaven and earth; but long intent
On microscopic arts its vigour fails:
Just so the mind, with various thought amused,
Nor aches itself, nor gives the body pain.
But anxious study, discontent, and care,
Love without hope, and hate without revenge,
And fear, and jealousy, fatigue the soul;
Engross the subtle ministers of life,
And spoil the labouring functions of their share.
Hence the lean gloom that Melancholy wears;
The lover's paleness; and the sallow hue
Of Envy, Jealousy; the meagre stare
Of sore Revenge: the canker'd body hence
Betrays each fretful motion of the mind.
The strong built pedant, who both night and day Feeds on the coarsest fare the schools bestow, And crudely fattens at gross Burman's stall; O'erwhelm'd with phlegm, lies in a dropsy drown'd, Or sinks in lethargy before his time.
With useful studies you, and arts that please,
Employ your mind; amuse, but not fatigue.
Peace to each drowsy metaphysic sage!
And ever may all heavy systems rest!
Yet some there are, even of elastic parts,
Whom strong and obstinate ambition leads
Through all the rugged roads of barren lore,
And gives to relish what their generous taste
Would else refuse. But may nor thirst of fame,
Nor love of knowledge, urge you to fatigue
With constant drudgery the liberal soul.
Toy with your books: and, as the various fits.
Of humour seize you, from philosophy
To fable shift; from serious Antonine
To Rabelais' ravings, and from prose to song,
While reading pleases, but no longer, read;
And read aloud resounding Homer's strain,
And wield the thunder of Demosthenes.
The chest, so exercised, improves its strength;
And quick vibrations through the bowels drive
The restless blood, which, in unactive days,
Would loiter else through unelastic tubes.
Deem it not trifling while I recommend
What posture suits; to stand and sit by turns,
As nature prompts, is best. But o'er your leaves
To lean for ever, cramps the vital parts,
And robs the fine machinery of its play.
'Tis the great art of life to manage well
The restless mind. For ever on pursuit
Of knowledge bent, it starves the grosser powers:
Quite unemploy'd, against its own repose
It turns its fatal edge, and sharper pangs
Than what the body knows imbitter life.
Chiefly where Solitude, sad nurse of Care,
To sickly musing gives the pensive mind.
There Madness enters; and the dim-eyed fiend,
Sour Melancholy, night and day provokes
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