Priests retreating from their pulpits!-- Some in hot, and some in cold fits In bad temper, Off they scamper, Leaving us--unhappy culprits! Doctors raving and disputing, Death's pale army still recruiting-- What a pother One with t'other! Some a-writing, some a-shooting. Nature's poisons here collected, Water, earth, and air infected-- O, what pity, Such a City, Was in such a place erected! [75] Published in the 1795 edition. In the index of the 1809 edition, the text of which I have used, it bears the title "Pestilence: written during the Prevalence of a yellow fever." It refers to the well-known epidemic in Philadelphia during the late summer and early autumn of 1793. ON DR. SANGRADO'S FLIGHT[76] From Philadelphia, in the Time of the Yellow Fever--1793 On prancing steed, with spunge at nose, From town behold Sangrado fly; Camphor and Tar where'er he goes Th' infected shafts of death defy-- Safe in an atmosphere of scents, He leaves us to our own defence. 'Twas right to fly! for well, I ween, In Stygian worlds, all scribes agree, No blushing blossom e'er was seen, Or running brook, or budding tree: No splendid meats, no flowing bowls, Smile on the meagre feast of souls: No sprightly songs, to banish grief, No balls, the Elysian beaus prepare, And he that throve on rounds of beef, On onion shells shall famish there-- Monarchs are there of little note, And Cæsar wears a shabby coat. Chloes on earth, of air and shape, Whose eyes destroy'd poor love-lorn wights, There lower their topsails to the cap, Rig in their booms and furl their kites:-- Where Cupid's bow was never bent, What lover asks a maid's consent? All this, and more, Sangrado knew, (In Lucian is the story told) Took horse--clapped spurs--and off he flew, Leaving his Sick to fret and scold; Some soldiers, thus, to honour lost, In day of battle quit their post. [76] First published in the _National Gazette_, September 4, 1793, under the title "Orlando's Flight." Text from the 1809 edition. ELEGY[77] On the Death of a Blacksmith With the nerves of a Sampson, this son of the sledge, By the anvil his livelihood got; With the skill of old Vulcan could temper an edge; And struck--while his iron was hot. By forging he lived, yet never was tried, Or condemned by the laws of the land; But still it is certain, and can't be denied, He often was burnt in the hand. With the sons of St. Crispin no kindred he claimed, With the last he had nothing to do; He handled no awl, and yet in his time Made many an excellent shoe. He blew up no coals of sedition, but still His bellows was always in blast; And we will acknowledge (deny it who will) That one Vice, and but one, he possessed.