Southern Planter

TO THE PESTILENCE

Thy shadow darkens round us,
Thy form is in the air,
Thy fatal voice hath found us,
Thy banquet will be rare!

A sudden fear hath bound us,
To know thee—and despair

Thy gloomy wing is flapping,
Impatient for thy prey;
Thy breath o'er all is wrapping
A shroud of sad decay;

The sullen grave is gaping—
Thine eye doth light the way
Avenging messenger!

When will thy course be run?
Whom hast thou marked! Art near
To me, relentless one?

When will thy dread career
Of punishment be done?

The glowing south, the icy north,
The vale, the desert bare,
The city and the mountain cot,
Thou visit'st every where—

The mosque, the idol temple, and
The Christians' place of prayer

Thou hast swept in all thy terror,
The regions of the east;

Thou hast bid the mighty—wither!
The loftiest and the least;

The brave, the fool, the beautiful,
Alike have been the feast.

The patriot, the tyrant,
Lord, vassal, friend, and foe;
The victor's arm hath sunk beside
The victim it laid low;

The hosts that meet for mortal strife
Have fallen without a blow,

Before thee thou hast cast thy shade
A frightful chill it hath;
One moment is the storm delayed,
The next it comes in wrath;

Then helpless, smitten things we fade
And wither in thy path.