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.