To hard unyielding unelastic bone,

Sach the reward of rude and sober life; Through tedious channels the congealing flood Of labor such. By health the peasant's toil Crawls lazily, and hardly wanders on;

Is well repaid ; if exercise were pain It loiters still; and now it stirs no more.

Indeed, and temperance pain. By arts like these This is the period few attain; the death

Laconia nurs'd of old her hardy sons ; Of Nature ; thus (so Hear'n ordaind it) life And Rome's unconquer'd legions arg'd their way Destroys itself; and could these laws have chang'd, Cnhurt, through every toil, in every clime. Nestor might now the fates of Troy relate ;

Toil, and be strong. By toil the flaccid nerves And Homer live immortal as his song.

Grow firm, and gain a more compacted tope; What does not fade? the tower that long had stood The greener juices are by toil sabda'd, The crush of thunder and the warring winds, Mellow'd and subtiliz'd; the vapid old Shook by the slow, but sure destroyer, Time, Erpelléd, and all the rancor of the blood. Now hangs in doubtful ruins o'er its base. Come, my companions, ye who feel the charms And fiinty pyramids, and walls of brass,

of Nature and the year; come, let us stray Descend: the Babylonian spires are sunk; Where chance or fancy leads our roving walk Achaia, Rome, and Egypi moulder down:

Come, while the soft voluptuous breezes fan Time shakes the stable tyranny of thrones, The fleecy Heavens, enwrap the limbs in balm, And tottering empires crush by their own weight. And shed a charming languor o'er the soul. This huge rotundity we tread grows oid ;

Xor when bright Winter sows with prickly frost And all those worlds that roll around the Sun, The vigorous ether, in unmanly warmth The Son himself, shall die ; and ancient Night Indulge at home; nor even when Eurus' blasts Again involve the desolate abyss :

This way and that convolve the lab'ring woods. "Till the great FATHER through the lifeless gloom My liberal walks, save when the skies in rain Extend his arm to light another world,

Or fogs relent, no season should confine And bid new planets roll by other laws.

Or to the cloister'd gallery or arcade. For through the regions of unbounded space, Go, climb the mountain; from th' ethereal source Where unconfin'd Omnipotence has room,

Imbibe the recent gale. The cheerful morn Being, in various systems, fluctuates still

Beams o'er the hills; go, mount th' exulting steed. Between creation and abhorr'd decay:

Already, see, the deep-mouth'd beagles caeth
It ever did, perbaps, and ever will.

The tainted mazes; and, on eager sport
New worlds are still emerging from the deep; Intent, with emolous impatience try
The old descending, in their turns to rise.

Each doubtful trace. Or, if a nobler prey
Delight you more, go chase the desperate deer;

And through its deepest solitudes awake
Book In.

The vocal forest with the jovial horn.

But if the breathless chase o'er hill and dale EXERCISE

Exceed your strength, a sport of less fatigue,

Not less delightful, the prolific stream THROUGH various toils th' adventurous Muse has Affords. The crystal rivulet, that o'er past;

A stony channel rolls its rapid maze. But half the toil, and more than half, remains. Swarms with the silver fry. Sach, through the bounds Rude is her theme, and hardly fit for song ; of pastoral Stafford, runs the brawling Trent; Plain, and of little ornament; and I

Sach Eden, sprung from Cumbrian mountains, such But little practis'd in th' Aonian arts.

The Esk, o'erhung with woods; and such the Yet not in vain such labors have we tried,

stream If aught these lays the fickle health confirm. On whose Arcadian banks I first drew air, To you, ye delicate, I write ; for you

Liddel; till now, ercept in Doric lays I tame my youth to philosophic cares,

Tun'd to her murmurs by her love-sick swains, And grow still paler by the midnight lamps. C'nknown in song; though not a purer stream, Not to debilitate with timorous rules

Through meads more flowery, more romantic groves, A hardy frame; nor needlessly to brave

Rolls toward the western main. Hail, sacred food! Inglorious dangers, proud of mortal strength, May still thy hospitable swains be blest Is all the lesson that in wholesome years

In rural innocence ; thy mountains still Concerns the strong. His care were ill bestow'd Teem with the fleecy race; thy tuneful woods Who would with warm effeminacy nurse

For ever flourish; and thy vales look gay The thriving oak which on the mountain's brow With painted meadows, and the golden grain! Bears all the blasts that sweep the wint'ry Heaven. Oft, with thy blooming sons, when life was new,

Behold the laborer of the glebe, who toils Sportive and petulant, and charmd with tops. In dust, in rain, in cold and sultry skies!

In thy transparent eddies have I lar'd:
Save but the grain from mildews and the flood, loft trac'd with patient steps thy fairy banks,
Nought anxious he what sickly stars ascend. With the well-imitated fly to hook
He knows no laws by Esculapius given;

The eager trout, and with the slender line
He studies none. Yet him nor midnight fogs And yielding rod solicit to the shore
Infest, nor those envenom'd shafts that fly

The struggling panting prey: while vernal clouds
When rabid Sirius fires th' antumnal noon. And tepid gales obscur'd the ruffled pool,
His habit pure with plain and temperate meals, And from the deeps callid forth the wanton swarms
Robust with labor, and by custom steel'd

Formid on the Samian school, or those of Ind, To every casualty of varied life;

There are who think these pastimes scarce humane Serene he bears the peevish eastern blast, Yet in my mind (and not relentless I) And uninfected breathes the mortal south

His life is pure that wears no fouler stains.

But if through genuine tenderness of heart, His vacant fancy most: the toil you hate
Or secret want of relish for the game,

Fatigues you soon, and scarce improves your limbs You shun the glories of the chase, nor care

As beauty still has blemish, and the mind
To haunt the peopled stream ; the garden yields The most accomplish'd its imperfect side,
A soft amusement, an humane delight.

Few bodies are there of that happy mould
To raise th' insipid nature of the ground;

But some one part is weaker than the rest : Or tame its savage genius to the grace

The legs, perhaps, or arms refuse their load, Of careless sweet rusticity, that seems

Or the chest labors. These assiduously, The'amiable result of happy chance,

But gently, in their proper arts employ'd, Is to create ; and gives a godlike joy,

Acquire a vigor and springy activity;' Which every year improves. Nor thou disdain To which they were not born. But weaker parts To check the lawless riot of the trees,

Abhor fatigue and violent discipline. To plant the grove, or turn the barren mould. Begin with gentle toils; and as your nerves O happy he! whom, when his years decline, Grow firm, to hardier by just steps aspire ; (His fortune and his fame by worthy means The prudent, even in every moderate walk, Attain'd, and equal to his moderate mind; At first but saunter, and by slow degrees His life approv'd by all the wise and good, Increase their pace. This doctrine of the wise Even envied by the vain,) the peaceful groves Well knows the master of the flying steed. Of Epicurus, from this stormy world,

First from the goal the manag'd coursers play Receive to rest ; of all ungrateful cares

On bended reins; as yet the skilful youth Absolv'd, and sacred from the selfish crowd. Repress their foamy pride; but every breath Happiest of men! if the same soil invites

The race grows warmer, and the tempest swells, A chosen few, companions of his youth,

Till all the fiery mettle has its way, Once fellow-rakes perhaps, now rural friends; And the thick thunder hurries o'er the plain. With whom in easy commerce to pursue

When all at once from indolence to toil Nature's free charms, and vie for sylvan fame : You spring, the fibres by the hasty shock A fair ambition; void of strife or guile,

Are tir'd and crack'd, before their unctuous coats, Or jealousy, or pain to be outdone.

Compress'd, can pour the lubricating balm.
Who plans th' enchanted garden, who directs Besides, collected in the passive veins,
The vista best, and best conducts the stream: The purple mass a sudden torrent rolls,
Whose groves the fastest thicken and ascend; O'erpowers the heart, and deluges the lungs
Whom first the welcome Spring salutes; who shows With dangerous inundation ; oft the source
The earliest bloom, the sweetest proudest charms Of fatal woes; a cough that foams with blood,
Of Flora ; who best gives Pomona's jnice

Asthma, and feller peripneumonyt,
To match the sprightly genius of champaign. Or the slow minings of the hectic fire.
Thrice-happy days! in rural business past:

Th'athletic fool, to whom what Heaven denied
Blest winter nights! when, as the genial fire Of soul is well compensated in limbs,
Cheers the wide hall, his cordial family

Oft from his rage, or brainless frolic, feels With soft domestic arts the hours beguile,

His vegetation and brute force decay. And pleasing talk that starts no timorous fame, The men of better clay and finer mould With witless wantonness to hunt it down : Know nature, feel the human dignity, Or through the fairy-land of tale or song

And scorn to vie with oxen or with apes. Delighted wander, in fictitious fates

Pursu'd prolixly, even the gentlest toil Engag'd, and all that strikes humanity:

Is waste of health: repose by small fatigue Till lost in fable, they the stealing hour

Is earn'd, and (where your habit is not prone Of timely rest forget. Sometimes, at eve

To thaw) by the first moisture of the brows.
His neighbors list the latch, and bless unbid The fine and subtle spirits cost too much
His festal roof; while, o'er the light repast, To be profus'd, too much the roscid balm.
And sprightly cups, they mix in social joy ; But when the hard varieties of life
And, through the maze of conversation, trace You toil to learn, or try the dusty chase,
Whate'er amuses or improves the mind.

Or the warm deeds of some important day:
Sometimes at eve (for I delight to taste

Hot from the field, indulge not yet your limbs The native zest and flavor of the fruit,

In wish'd repose ; nor court the fanning gale, Where sense grows wild, and tastes of no manure) Nor taste the spring. O! by the sacred tears The decent, honest, cheerful husbandman

Of widows, orphans, mothers, sisters, sires, Should drown his labor in my friendly bowl; Forbear! no other pestilence has driven And at my table find himself at home.

Such myriads o'er th' irremeable deep. Whate'er you study, in whate'er you sweat, Why this so fatal, the sagacious Muse Indulge your taste. Some love the manly foils ; Through nature's cunning labyrinths could trace: The tennis some; and some the graceful dance. But there are secrets which who knows not now, Others, more hardy, range the purple heath, Must, ere he reach them, climb the heapy Alps Or naked stubble; where, from field to field, Of science; and devote seven years to toil. The sounding coveys urge their laboring flight; Besides, I would not stun your patient ears Eager amid the rising cloud to pour

With what it little boots you to attain. The gun's unerring thunder: and there are He knows enough, the mariner, who knows Whom still the meed* of the green archer charms. Where lurk the shelves, and where the whirlpools He chooses best, whose labor entertains


What signs portend the storm: to subtler minds * This word is much used by some of the old English poets, and signifies reward or prize.

| The inflammation of the lungs.

He leaves to scan, from what mysterious cause He not the safe vieissitudes of life
Charybdis rages in th' Ionian wave;

Without some shock endures, ill-fitted he
Whence those impetuous corrents in the main To want the known, or bear unusual things.
Which neither oar nor sail can stem; and why Besides, the powerful remedies of pain
The roughening deep expects the storm, as sure (Since pain in spite of all our care will come!
As red Orion mounts the shrouded Heaven

Should never with your prosperous days of hea" In ancient times, when Rome with Athens vied Grow too familiar: for by frequcnt use For polish'd luxury and useful arts ;

The strongest medicines lose their healing powe All hot and reeking from th' Olympic strife, And even the surest poisons theirs to kill. And warm Palestra, in the tepid bath

Let those who from the frozen Aretos reach Th' athletic youth relax'd their weary limbs. Pareh'd Mauritania, or the sultry west, Soft oils bedew'd them, with the grateful pow'rs Or the wide flood that laves rich Indosian, of nard and cassia fraught, to soothe and heal Plunge thrice a day, and in the tepid wave The cherish'd nerves. Our less voluptuous clime Untwist their stubborn pores; that full and free Not much invites us to such arts as these.

Th' evaporation through the soften'd skin "Tis not for those, whom gelid skies embrace, May bear proportion to the swelling blood. And chilling fogs; whose perspiration feels So may they 'scape the fever's rapid flames : Such frequent bars from Eurus and the North ; So feel untainted the hot breath of Hell. "Tis not for those to cultivale a skin

With us, the man of no complaint demands
Too soft: or teach the recremental fume

The warm ablution just enongh to clear
Too fast to crowd through such precarious ways. The sluices of the skin, enongh to keep
For through the small arterial mouths, that pierce The body sacred from indecent soil.
In endless millions the elose-woven skin,

Still to be pare, ev'n did it not conduce
The baser flaids in a constant stream

(As much it does) to health, were greatly worth Escape, and viewless melt into the winds. Your daily pains. "Tis this adorns the rich; While this eternal, this most copies waste

The want of this is poverty's worst woe; Of blood, degenerates into vapid brine,

With this external virtue, age maintains Maintains its wonted measure, all the powers A decent grace; without it, youth and charms Of health befriend you, all the wheels of life Are lothesome. This the venal graces know; With ease and pleasure move: but this restrain'd So doubtless do your wives: for married sires, Or more or less, so more or less you feel

As well as lovers, still pretend to taste; The functions labor: from this fatal source

Nor is it less (all prudent wires can tell) What woes descend is never to be sung.

To lose a husband's than a lover's heart. To take their numbers, were to count the sands | But now the hours and seasons when to toil That ride in whirlwind the parch'd Libyan air; From foreign themes recall my wandering song Or waves that, when the blustering North embroils Some labor fasting, or but slightly fed The Baltic, thunder on the German shore.

To lull the grinding stomach's hungry rage. Subject not then, by soft emollient arts,

Where nature feeds too corpulent a frame, This grand expense, on which your fates depend, "Tis wisely done : for while the thirsty veins, To every caprice of the sky; nor thwart

Impatient of lean penury, devour
The genius of your clime: for from the blood The treasur'd oil, then is the happiest time
Least fickle rise the recremental steams,

To shake the lazy balsam from its cells.
And least obnoxious to the sty ptic air,

Now while the stomach from the full repast Which breathe through straiter and more callous Subsides, but ere returning hunger gnaws, pores.

Ye leaner habits, give an hour to toil; The temper'd Scythian hence, half-naked treads And ye whom no luxuriancy of growth His boundless snows, nor rues th'inclement Heaven; Oppresses yet, or threatens to oppress. And hence our painted ancestors defied

But from the recent meal no labors please The east; nor curs'd, like us, their fickle sky.

Of limbs or mind. For now the cordial powers The body, moulded by the clime, endures Claim all the wandering spirits to a work The equator beats or hyperborean frost :

Of strong and subtle toil, and great event: Except by habits foreign to its turn,

A work of time; and you may rue the day Unwise you counteract its forming pow'r.

You hurried, with untimely exercise, Rude at the first, the winter shocks you less A half-concocted chyle into the blood. By long acquaintance : study then your sky, The body overcharged with unctuous phlegm Form to its manners your obsequious frame, Much toil demands: the lean elastic less. And learn to suffer what you cannot shun. While winter chills the blood and binds the veins, Against the rigors of a damp cold heav'n

No labors are 100 hard: by those you 'scape To fortify their bodies, some frequent

The slow diseases of the torpid year; The gelid cistern; and, where nought forbids, Endless to name; to one of which alone, I praise their dauntless heart: a frame so steeld To that which tears the nerves, the toil of slaves Dreads not the cough, nor those ungenial blasts Is pleasure : Oh! from such inhuman pains That breathe the tertian or fell rheumatism; May all be free who merit not the wheel! The nerves so temper'd never quit their tone, But from the burning Lion when the Sun No chronic languors haunt such hardy breasts. Pours down his sultry wrath; now while the bloor! But all things have their bounds; and he who Too much already maddens in the veins, makes

And all the finer fluids through the skin By daily use the kindest regimen

Explore their flight; me, near the cool cascade Essential to his health, should never mix

Reclin'd, or saunt'ring in the lofty grove, With human kind, nor art nor trade pursue. No needless slight occasion should engage

To pant and sweat beneath the fiery noon. 10 shame! O pity! nipt with pale quadrille, Now the fresh morn alone and mellow eve And midnight cares, the bloom of Albion dies! To shady walks and active rural sports

By toil subdu'd, the warrior and the hind Invite. But, while the chilling dews descend, Sleep fast and deep: their active functions soon May nothing lempt you to the cold embrace With generous streams the subtle tubes supply ; or humid skies; though 'tis no vulgar joy

And soon the tonic irritable nerves To trace the horrors of the solemn wood,

Feel the fresh impulse and awake the soul. While the soft evening saddens into night:

The sons of indolence with long repose Though the sweet poet of the vernal groves Grow torpid ; and, with slowest Leihe drunk, Melts all the night in strains of am'rous woe. Feebly and ling'ringly return to life,

The shades descend, and midnight o'er the world Blunt every sense and powerless every limb. Expands her sable wings. Great Nature droops Ye, prone to sleep (whom sleeping most annoys) Through all her works. Now happy he whose toil On the hand mattress or elastic couch Has o'er his languid powerless limbs diffus'd Extend your limbs, and wean yourselves from sloth A pleasing lassitude: he not in vain

Nor grudge the lean projector, of dry brain Invokes the gentle deity of dreams.

And springy nerves, the blandishments of down: His powers the most voluptuously dissolve

Nor envy while the buried Bacchanal In soft repose : on him the balmy dews

Exhales his surfeit in prolixer dreams. of sleep with double nutriment descend.

He without riot, in the balmy feast But would you sweetly waste the blank of night or life, the wants of nature has supplied, In deep oblivion; or on Fancy's wings

Who rises, cool, serene, and full of soul. Visit the paradise of happy dreams,

But pliant nature more or less demands, And waken cheerful as the lively morn;

As custom forms her; and all sudden change Oppress not nature sinking down to rest

She hales of habit, even from bad to good. With feasts too late, too solid, or too full:

If faults in life, or new emergencies, But be the first concoction half-matur'd

From habits urge you by long time confirm'd, Ere you to mighty indolence resign

Slow may the change arrive, and stage by stage; Your passive faculties. He from the toils

Slow as the shadow o'er the dial moves, And troubles of the day to heavier toil

Slow as the stealing progress of the year. Retires, whom trembling from the lower that rocks Observe the circling year. How unperceiv'd Amid the clouds, or Calpe's hideous height, Her seasons change! Behold! by slow degrees, The busy demons hurl; or in the main

Stern Winter tam'd into a ruder Spring; O'erwhelm; or bury struggling under ground. The ripen'd Spring a milder Summer's glows; Not all a monarch's luxury the woes

The parting Summer sheds Pomona's store, Can counterpoise of that most wretched man, And aged Autumn brews the winter storm. Whose nights are shaken with the frantic fits Slow as they come, these changes come not void of wild Orestes; whose delirious brain,

Of mortal shocks: the cold and torrid reigns, Stung by the furies, works with poison'd thought; The two great periods of the important year, While pale and monstrous painting shocks the soul; Are in their first approaches seldom sase; And mangled consciousness bemoans itself Funereal Autumn all the sickly dread; For ever torn ; and chaos floating round.

And the black fates deform the lovely Spring. What dreams presage, what dangers these or those He well advis'd who taught our wiser sires Portend to sanity, though prudent seers

Early to borrow Muscovy's warm spoils, Reveal'd of old, and men of deathless fame, Ere the first frost has touch'd the tender blade; We would not to the superstitious mind

And late resign them, though the wanton Spring Suggest new throbs, new vanities of fear.

Should deck her charms with all her sister's rays "Tis ours to teach you from the peaceful night For while the eMuence of the skin maintains To banish omens and all restless woes.

Its native measure, the pleuritic Spring In study some protract the silent hours,

Glides harmless by; and Autumn, sick to death Which others consecrate to mirth and wine; With sallow quartans, no contagion breathes. And sleep till noon, and hardly live till night. I in prophetic numbers could unfold But surely this redeems not from the shades | The omens of the year: what seasons teem One hour of life. Nor does it nought avail With what diseases; what the humid South What season you to drowsy Morpheus give Prepares, and what the demon of the East: Of th' ever-varying circle of the day;

But you perhaps refuse the tedious song. Or whether, through the tedious winter gloom, Besides, whatever plagues in heat, or cold, You tempt the midnight or the morning damps. Or drought, or moisture dwell, they hurt not you, The body, fresh and vigorous from repose,

Skill'd to correct the vices of the sky, Defies the early fogs: but, by the toils

And taught already how to each extreme Of wakeful day exhausted and unstrung,

To bend your life. But should the public bane Weakly resists the night's unwholesome breath. Infect you; or some trespass of your own, The grand discharge, th' effusion of the skin, Or flaw of nature, hint mortality; Slowly impair'd, the languid maladies

Soon as a not unpleasing horror glides Creep on, and through the sick’ning functions steal. Along the spine, through all your torpid limbs ; As, when the chilling east invades the Spring, When first the head throbe, or the stomach feels The delicate narcissus pines away

A sickly load, a weary pain the loins ; In hectic languor, and a slow disease

Be Celsus callid: the fates come rushing on: Taints all the family of flowers, condemn'd The rapid fates admit of no delay. To cruel heav'ns. But why, already prone While wilsul you, and fatally secure, To fade, should beauty cherish its own bane ? Expect to-morrow's more auspicious sun,

The growing pest, whose infancy was weak 1 of many thousands, few untainted 'scap'd;
And easy vanquish'd, with triumphant sway Of those infected, fewer 'scap'd alive:
O'erpow'rs your life. For want of timely care, of those who liv'd, some felt a second blow;
Millions have died of medicable wounds.

And whom the second spar'd, a third destroy'd.
Ah! in what perils is vain life engag'd! Frantic with fear, they sought by Night to shun
What slight neglects, what trivial faults destroy The fierce contagion. O'er the mournful land
The hardiest frame! of indolence, of toil,

Th'infected city pour'd her hurrying swarms: We die ; of want, of superfluity :

Rous'd by the flames that fir'd her seats around, The all-surrounding Heaven, the vital air,

Th’infected country rush'd into the town. Is big with death. And, though the putrid South Some, sad at home, and in the desert some, Be shut; though no convulsive agony

Abjur'd the fatal commerce of mankind: Shake, from the deep foundations of the world, In vain : where'er they fled, the fates pursu'd. Th'imprison'd plagues ; a secret venom oft Others, with hopes more specious, cross'd the main, Corrupts the air, the water, and the land.

To seek protection in far-distant skies; What livid deaths has sad Byzantium seen! But none they found. It seem'd the general air, How oft has Cairo, with a mother's woe,

From pole to pole, from Atlas to the east, Wept o'er her slaughter'd sons and lonely streets! Was then at enmity with English blood. Even Albion, girt with less malignant skies, For, but the race of England, all were safe Albion the poison of the gods has drank,

In foreign climes ; nor did this fury taste And felt the sting of monsters all her own.

The foreign blood which England then contain'd. Ere yet the fell Plantagenets had spent

Where should they fly? The circumambient Heaven Their ancient rage, at Bosworth's purple field; Involv'd them still; and every breeze was bane. While, for which tyrant England should receive, Where find relief? The salutary art Her legions in incestuous murders mix'd,

Was mute ; and, startled at the new disease, And daily horrors; till the fates were drunk In fearful whispers hopeless omens gave. With kindred blood by kindred hands profus'd : To Heaven with suppliant rites they sent their pray'rs; Another plague of more gigantic arm

Heav'n heard them not. Of every hope depriv'd; Arose, a monster, never known before,

Fatigued with vain resources; and subdu'd Rear'd from Cocytus its portentous head.

With woes resistless and enfeebling fear; This rapid fury not, like other pests,

Passive they sunk beneath the weighty blow. Pursu'd a gradual course, but in a day

Nothing but lamentable sounds was heard, Rush'd as a storm o'er half the astonish'd isle, Nor aught was seen but ghastly views of death. And strew'd with sudden carcasses the land. Infectious horror ran from face to face,

First, through the shoulders, or whatever part And pale despair. 'Twas all the business then Was seiz'd the first, a fervid vapor sprung.

To tend the sick, and in their turns to die. With rash combustion thence, the quivering spark In heaps they fell: and oft one bed, they say, Shot to the heart, and kindled all within ;

The sick’ning, dying, and the dead contain'd. And soon the surface caught the spreading fires. | Ye guardian gods, on whom the fates depend Through all the yielded pores, the melted blood or tottering Albion! ye eternal fires Gush'd out in smoky sweats; but nought assuag'd That lead through Heav'n the wandering year! ye The torrid heat within, nor aught reliev'd

The stomach's anguish. With incessant toil, That o'er th' encircling elements preside!
Desperate of ease, impatient of their pain,

May nothing worse than what this age has seen
They toss'd from side to side. In vain the stream | Arrive! Enough abroad, enough at home
Ran full and clear, they burnt and thirsted still. Has Albion bled. Here a distemper'd heaven
The restless arteries with rapid blood

Has thinn'd her cities, from those lofty cliffs
Beat strong and frequent. Thick and pantingly That awe proud Gaul, to Thule's wintry reign;
The breath was fetch'd, and with huge lab'rings While in the west, beyond the Atlantic foam,

Her bravest sons, keen for the fight, have died At last a heavy pain oppress’d the head,

The death of cowards and of common men :
A wild delirium came; their weeping friends Sunk void of wounds, and fall'n without renown.
Were strangers now, and this no home of theirs. But from these views the weeping Muses turn,
Harass'd with toil on toil, the sinking powers And other themes invite my wandering song.
Lay prostrate and o'erthrown; a ponderous sleep
Wrapt all the senses up: they slept and died.
In some a gentle horror crept at first

Book IV.
O'er all the limbs; the sluices of the skin
Withheld their moisture, till by art provok'd

The sweats o'erflow'd; but in a clammy tide :
Now free and copious, now restrain’d and slow; The choice of aliment, the choice of air,
of tinctures various, as the temperature

The use of toil, and all external things,
Had mix'd the blood ; and rank with fetid steams : Already sung; it now remains to trace
As if the pent-up humors by delay

What good, what evil, from ourselves proceeds :
Were grown more sell, more putrid, and malign. And how the subtle principle within
Here lay their hopes (though little hope remain'd) Inspires with health, or mines with strange decay
With full effusion of perpetual sweats

The passive body. Ye poetic shades
To drive the venom out. And here the fates Who know the secrets of the world unseen,
Were kind, that long they linger'd not in pain; Assist my song! for, in a doubtful theme
For who surviy'd the Sun's diurnal race

Engag'd, I wander through mysterious ways.
Rose from the dreary gates of Hell redeem'd : There is, they say, (and I believe there is.)
Some the sixth hour oppress’d, and some the third. A spark within us of th' immortal fire,

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