Next dire diseases crowd his train,
With inexhausted hoards of woe;
Fevers replete with burning pain,
Lingering consumptions, sure tho’ slow,
And last, to close the horrid scene,
With haggard eye, and frightful mien,
Lo! the grim tyrant Death appears;
A ghastly smile his visage wears,
Whilst in his hand exultingly he shews;
Emblem of timeless fate! the wither’d half-blown rose.