Some Curate, martyrs to infected blood.
To some doom’d breast the noxious vapour flies,
Some luckless lung the deadly reek inspires,
Ev’n from the tomb morbific fumes arise,
Ev’n in men’s ashes live Disorder’s fires.
For thee, who, shock’d to see th’ unhonoured dead,
Dost in these lines their shameful plight relate
If, chance, by sanitary musings led,
Some graveyard-gleaner shall inquire thy fate.
Haply some muddle-headed clerk will say,