Ah ! why with restless, anxious search explore,
Thro' distant realms the progress of disease?
In ev'ry clime, with like destructive pow'r
The hand of Death his hapless prey shall seize.

Not more remote where genial suns arise,
And healthful airs o'er fragrant blossoms play,
Than where the putrid vapour blasts the skies,
And spreads infection o'er the lurid day.

Where sprightly youth, and blooming beauty sport,
H E joins the chorus, and partakes the show:
And where the graces and the loves resort,
Amidst their roses, twines his cypress bough.

The bowl he snatches from ungovern'd joy,
Where riot calls, a quick, rapacious guest:
And, slowly-sure, his lurking arts destroy
The solitary hermit's frugal feast.

To what blest realm can trembling fear retire,
Unconscious of his universal sway?
Then why with anxious fruitless search enquire
Who first, or last, must fall his destin'd prey?

Yes: one blest realm shall grant a safe retreat,
One faithful guide the LIVING W AY supply:
To his direction let the soul submit,
And calmly yield to Death whate'er can die.