Yes, we have conquer'd! and the thought should raise A spirit in our prayers as well as praise, For who will say, in Nature's wide domain There lurk not remedies for every pain? Who will assert, where Turkish banners fly, Woe still shall reign--the plague shall never die? Or who predict, with bosom all unblest, An everlasting fever in the West? Forbid it Heav'n!--Hope cheers us with a smile, The sun of Mercy's risen on our isle: Its beams already, o'er th' Atlantic wave, Pierce the dark forests of the suffering brave: There, e'en th' abandon'd sick imbib'd a glow, When warrior nations, resting on the bow, Astonish'd heard the joyful rumour rise, And call'd the council of their great and wise: The truth by female pray'rs was urg'd along, Youth ceas'd the chorus of the warrior song, And present ills bade present feelings press With all the eloquence of deep distress; Till forth their chiefs [A] o'er dying thousands trod To seek the white man and his bounteous God: [Footnote A: The chiefs of the Cherokee Indians, in North America, have applied to the government of the United States for information on the subject of Vaccine Inoculation, and have spread the practice in the Woods.] Well sped their errand; with a patriot zeal They spread the blessing for their country's weal. Where India's swarthy millions crowd the strand, And round that isle, which crowns their pointed land, Speeds the good angel with the balmy breath, And checks the dreadful tyranny of death: Whate'er we hear to hurt the peace of life, Of Candian treachery and British strife, The sword of commerce, nations bought and sold, They owe to England more than mines of gold; England has sent a balm for private woe; England strikes down the nations' bitterest foe. Europe, amidst the clangor of her arms, While life was threaten'd with a thousand harms, And Charity was freezing to its source, Still saw fair Science keep her steady course; And, while whole legions fell, by friends deplor'd, New germs of life sprung up beneath the sword, And spread amain.--Then, in our bosoms, why Must exultation mingle with a sigh? Thought takes the retrospect of years just fled, And, conjuring up the spirits of the dead, Whispers each dear and venerated name Of the last victims ere the blessing came, Worthies, who through the lands that gave them birth Breath'd the strong evidence of growing worth; Parents, cut down in life's meridian day, And childhood's thousand thousand swept away; Life's luckless mariners! ye, we deplore Who sunk within a boat's length of the shore [A]. [Footnote A: So lately as the year 1793, the small-pox was carried to the Isle of France by a Dutch ship, and there destroyed five thousand four hundred persons in six weeks.--Woodville.]