But soon the smiling years their period run,
A gloomy aera now its course begun:
Pale famine comes, with her malignant train,
Dries up the springs, and taints the fertile plain:
The trees decay, each flow'r, and balmy plant
Pine at their roots, and vital humour want:
No pearly moisture on the meadow lies;
To fan the air no gentle breezes rise.
The languid moon sheds from her silent sphere
No cooling dews, the thirsty earth to chear.
A sultry night ensues a scorching day;
While dismal signs the fiery clouds display.