“Wan, meagre forms, torn from impending death,
Exulting, blest us with reviving breath—
The shivering wretch we clothed, the mourner cheer’d,
And sickness ceased to groan when we appear’d—
Unask’d, our care assists with tender art
Their bodies, nor neglects the immortal part.
Sometimes in shades, unpierced by Cynthia’s beam,
Whose lustre glimmer’d on the dimpled stream,
We wander’d innocent through sylvan scenes,
Or tripp’d like fairies o’er the level greens—