In wish’d repose, nor court the fanning gale, 220
Nor taste the spring. O! by the sacred tears
Of widows, orphans, mothers, sisters, sires,
Forbear! No other pestilence has driven
Such myriads o’er th’ irremeable deep.
Why this so fatal, the sagacious muse 225
Thro’ nature’s cunning labyrinths could trace:
But there are secrets which who knows not now,
Must, ere he reach them, climb the heapy Alps
Of science; and devote seven years to toil.