Classic Poem

When Death that fatal Arrow drew,
Ten Thousand hearts he pierced through,
Though one alone he out-right slew;
Never since Sin gave him his killing Trade,
He, at one shot, so great a slaughter made;
He needs no more at those let fly,
They of that wound alone will dye,
And who can now expect to live, when he
Thus fell unprivileg'd we see!
He met Death in his greatest Tryumph, War,
And always thence came off a Conqueror,
Through rattling shot, and Pikes the Slave he sought,
Knock'd at each Cuirass for him as he fought,
Beat him at Sea, and baffled him on shore,
War's utmost fury he out-brav'd before:
But yet, it seems, a Fever could do more.