Thomas MacQueen

“ Rose up to solve the problem why they died;
'Twas in the atmosphere—'Twas in the clothes—
The food—the blood—the lungs—the mind—’twas fear—
’Twas constitutional—contagious—mild—
Severe—incurable—a simple thing—
A mighty mystery ne'er to be disclos’d.
Such were the vulgar theories pursu’d,
All empty as the breath that gave them birth,
And spite of all, the pestilence jogg’d on
With silent step, and sudden death, and woe,
And bitterness to many; and to all
Dismay and terror. Men’s hearts fail’d for fear. ”

“ With hand on mouth to ward contagion’s breath,
All mournful, waiting to convey the corpse
To the lone mansions of the peaceful dead;
Yet none approach'd the bier, save those few friends
Whose sympathy was strong as love of life. ”

“ Suspended seem'd all labour and affairs,
All human life stood still as petrified,
And hung the head, and sigh'd a hopeless sigh,
As though creation’s final doom had come.
Friends met upon the street and halted mute,
Or, if they spake, ’twas with a shaking head,
Half muttering "'Tis an awful time indeed;" ”