VI PREFACE. 



' Most certainly ; an illness long and dire 

 Made idle time, and did my muse inspire ; 

 Strange tho' it seem for Armstrong, no mean judge, 

 Says, " sickness e'er owes poetry a grudge, 

 And to succeed, Hygeia must preside, 

 Or poets' casket 's scant and warp'd beside ;" 

 As such he shone, the healing art profess'd, 

 With knowledge competent to speak was blest, 

 Still, when alone, encircled by the gloom 

 That moodily invests the sick man's room, 

 Midst its monotony, and th' unceasing round 

 Of wakeful sleep, ill relish'd meals, the sound 

 Of tedious clock, which warns him when to take 

 The nauseous draught, and seems to elongate 

 Each hour unto a day ; his mind reverts 

 With pleasing sadness to the past, diverts 

 Itself with shadowy bliss, alas, now past, 

 And hopes instinctively disease may'nt blast 

 His future days, nor he be doom'd to mourn 

 For aye life's choicest blessing, whose return 



