To A Young Lady At Holt Poem by Samuel Bowden

ON HER Recovery from the Small-Pox, By INOCULATION

Sylvia, a painful, yet a pleasing flight,
Your health restor'd-the muse attempts to write.
Inoculation! unharmonious name!
And dire disease, afford no grateful theme;
Yet thus inspir'd, no dangers shall dismay,
When friendship prompts, and Sylvia smooths the Way.


Long had triumphant death, with fatal wound,
Spread its malignant influence all around;
From age to age, with barbarous spoil convey'd
Untimely ghosts to Styx's gloomy shade:
As with fell blast, commission'd from the sky,
O'er guilty lands avenging angels fly;
From realm to realm the curst contagion past,
With raging sores, and pestilential blast.
The spotted monster, with polluted gore,
Breath'd putrid death at every poison'd pore:
Not with less fury o'er Numidian plains,
Or Barca's waste, the spotted panther reigns.
Noxious as steams which from Averno flew,
Replete with mortal mists, and sulphurous dew;
The birds which o'er the gloomy caverns stray'd,
Sudden dropt smother'd in the tainted shade;
O'er the blue lake, mute fish astonish'd lie;
Forget their useless fins, and gasping die.


Thus thro' the air, Variola exhales
Effluvia keen, and taints the sickening gales.
Oft' from contagious town, th' unhappy swain
Imbibes from foetid smell, the fatal stain.
Home to his honest toil and rustic life,
He meets his smiling babes, and anxious wife;
But thoughtless, wots not death, that silent sleeps
Within his veins, and o'er his vitals creeps.
Heav'n to mankind this ignorance bestows,
And in kind shades conceals our future woes.


Too long such havock had contagion spread,
And peopl'd all the regions of the dead;
Too long had death the cruel spoil enjoy'd,
And mortals half deform'd, or half destroy'd:
As insects hovering in an eastern breeze,
Or kill with baneful blast, or mark the trees;
'Till sent from Heaven, th' inoculating art,
Its fury checkt, and sheath'd th' envenom'd dart.


Th' immortal art, far back in distant time,
Was practis'd first in fair Circassia's clime.
'Twas thus the beauties of that martial race,
From foul deformity preserv'd the face:
There the fond mother, when the babes she nurst,
Dar'd in their veins the morbid ichor trust;
Unspotted thus the beauteous babe she saves,
Expos'd to shine amongst Seraglian slaves;
For Turkish sale, and venal fortune bred,
To grace a Signor's, or a Basha's bed.


Blest be th' invention, and the art ador'd,
Which sav'd mankind, and Sylvia's Health restor'd.


Say, Sylvia, how debating passions sway'd,
With pulse alternate, when th' attempt you weigh'd?
To graft distempers, and inflict disease,
Seem'd a bold challenge on divine decrees.
Too fast comes sickness, with its solemn train,
Shall mortals then anticipate their pain?
Ingenious-nature's artifice to ape,
And seek diseases which they may escape.
But preservation turns the dubious scales,
And reason o'er fantastic fears prevails:
Obvious the choice, let prejudice depart,
To die by Nature-or to live by Art.


Say, with what thoughts your beating breast was fill'd,
When in your veins the poison first distil'd?
Calm and sedate, no anxious cares you felt,
For peaceful: Virtue in that region dwelt.
So undisturb'd, good Socrates drank up,
The mortal mixture of the poison'd cup.
More anxious far attentive Sylphs stood round,
And conscious Muses hover'd o'er the wound:
For all the light militia of the sky
Still round their favourite fair patroling fly.
From the Pandoran box, with heavenly art,
And balm divine, some chace the destin'd dart;
While some with poppy fans soft sleep infuse,
And o'er your pillow pour pacific dews.
Protected thus-what dangers cou'd you dread,
While tutelary Saints watch'd round your bed?


For see disease with all its fury flies,
Gay health returns, and sparkles in your eyes.
The smiling spring salutes your smiles again,
And birds address you in harmonious strain.


Thus sav'd from cruel fate, good Sylvia say,
What trophies will you raise, what offerings pay?
Can you a tributary song refuse,
Some votive shrine, some altar to the muse?
Some grateful Hymn to that Protecting Power
Who thus preserv'd you in the dangerous hour.
Let others their own way the Powers address,
Sylvia's must be a Hecatomb of Verse.
Accepted thus, poetic Prayers will rise,
And breath in fragrant incense to the skies.