What fruitful seeds of ill To mar man’s mortal state, And earth with woes to fill, From the worm emanate! His pestilential breath Fevers and plagues doth cause, And each disease to death Which man untimely draws. When one in manhood’s prime Feels his approaching end, And ere yet lapsed his time, To Hela’s power must bend; When his heart-broken spouse Sees hope’s last promise fail, Then his fell might he’ll rouse To mock the widow’s wail. Her babe, which will not rest When the pale mother clasps, And gives in vain the breast, Struggling for life it gasps. Poor babe, as early rose Late fresh—she sees its eye In death for ever close— Nor weeps for agony: When one, who purely burns, Absent for many a year, To his true love returns And finds her on her bier. When from a mourning realm Some virtuous prince is ta’en, Or chief has bow’d his helm; Then sure the foul snake’s seen Writhing for joy. Their birth All serpents, which infest Man’s central spot of earth, Draw from his nostril’s blast. The great snake, whose wide jowl, (To th’ southwards, far away) Will gulp a raging bull, Through him first saw the day. Its tail wound round an oak It watcheth long its prey, Which from the affrighted flock Struggling it drags away. Others, with diamond eyes, To Askur’s mortal race, Death-doomed! though less in size, Alas! not fatal less. Fair sight their forms to view Basking in new-donn’d sheen, To their’s the violet’s blue Must yield, or emerald’s green: They know, by wizard gaze, Coil’d ’neath some leafy bower, Their prey with fear to glaze, And charm him to their power.