Thou grim physician, armed with septic shears, Thou that dissemblest even in death's repose Earth's quiet pulse and her remedial throes, How dull thy visage on this day appears! Let now the dismal heaven give vent, its tears Come frozen ever; no gale coeval blows Filled with the ravaged perfume of the rose; And keep not all fair things forsaken biers? O haste, then, spiritless minister, thy pains To charge the sources of the unfruitful earth For harvests blest in wood, in plot and lawn! O laggard, on! till fire re-flood the veins Of Spring here, ay, to trip the vales with Mirth, As, long night over, does the exulting dawn!