But now, frail Health, how wan thy roses seem!
In flower currents flows the purple stream:
No more this breast with martial rage shall glow,
Nor rush all vengeance on the adverse foe;
No more this arm the flaming faulchion wield,
Or gather laurels from the well-fought field;
No more — for see the dire disease prevail,
My nerves all tremble, all my spirits fail!
— Ah, why those cries? see lovely Reason near
To calm the soul, and wipe off every tear,
O! rather all your wonted joys renew!
If life I leave, I leave its troubles too:
For, if my happy soul to God ascends,
Or in mere nothing if my being ends,
Death soon shall waft me to some unknown shore,
Where labours end, and sorrows are no more:
Where patriot heroes in the peaceful shade
No factions threaten, and no foes invade;
Where long oblivion, ending anxious strife,
Stills the wild hurry of a noisy life;
Or where all joys with heart-felt ease abound,
Whilst youthful spring for ever blooms around.