Independent Journal, Or, The General Advertiser

A HYMN to HEALTH.
Written in Sicknes.

SWEET as the fragrant breath of genial May,
O come, thou fair Hygea, heavenly born,
More lovely than the sun's returning ray,
To northern regions at the half-year's morn.
Where shall I seek thee? In the wholesome grot,
Where Temperance her frugal meal enjoins
Or Peace, contented with her humble lot,
Beneath her thatch th' inclement blast defies?
Sweet from each flower that sips the morning dew,
Thy wing besprinkles all the scenes around;
Where'er thou fly'st the blooms blush anew,
And purple violets paint the hallow'd ground.
Thy presence renovated nature shows,
Each shrub with variegated hue is dy'd;
Each tulip with redoubled lustre glows,
And all creation smiles with flow'ry pride
But, in thy absence, joy is e'en no more,
Thy landscape wither'd e'en in spring appears;
The morn lowers ominous o'er the dusky shore,
And evening suns set half extinct in tears.
Ruthless Disease ascends when thou art gone,
From the dark regions of th' abyss below,
With Pestilence, the guardian of her throne,
Breathing contagion from the realms of woe.
In vain her citron groves Italia boasts,
Or Po the balm of her weeping trees;
In vain Arabia's aromatic coasts
Tincture the pinions of the passing breeze.