Page:A translation of Anstey's ode to Jenner - 1804.pdf/14

 Shall not the muse her tuneful accents raise, And wake her slumb'ring lyre to sing thy praise?


 * Here, plung'd in grief, and pensive, and forlorn,

The long-lost objects of my love I mourn; My dear associates, ravish'd from my breast By the foul venom of that baneful pest; While many a blemish cover'd ev'ry face, Robb'd ev'ry charm, and rifl'd ev'ry grace.


 * When the dire fiend, which thus, in early bloom,

His victims hurl'd untimely to the tomb, In all his horrors rises to my view, How shall I tell what thanks to Heav'n are due? And due to thee, whose godlike arm repress'd The lawless rage of that malignant pest;