Page:Village pestilence.pdf/6

6 And the cold lump of dull unconscious clay.

The plague went on—and oh! what dire distress,

And woe, and lamentation, and despair,

And clouded brows, and melancholy dark,

O'er all the village spread! and still anon

Deep wailings for the dead, and mingled groans

Of agonised life expiring fast

From many a dwelling came. Small sable groups

Round many a door in sullen silence stood,

With hand on mouth to ward contagion’s breath,

All mournful, waiting to convey the corpse

To the lone mansions of the peaceful dead;

Yet none approach'd the bier, save those few friends

Whose sympathy was strong as love of life.

All distant stood—yea, ev’n the Man of God,

He, who alone knew why the people died,

And solv'd the problem with "'Tis heaven’s decree!"

His daily theme of happiness in heaven,

And angel's harp, and glory's diadem,

And righteous hope, that would be realised

With strange unutterable things reserv’d

For all who did believe, had made him deem

Honours and riches, yea, and life itself

Mere things, vain trifles, trash,

Vague bubbles, quite unworthy the regard

Of dignified immortal things like man;

Yet even he felt smitten with the dread—

Forgot his calling and his trust in God—

Refus'd to minister the gospel's balm

To dying husband, or to widow'd wife.