When scenes are chang'd on this revolving earth, When, lo! a mighty trump, one half conceal'd O pow'rful blast! to which no equal sound Did e'er the frighted ear of nature wound, Though rival clarions have been strain'd on high, And kindled wars immortal through the sky, Tho' God's whole engin'ry discharg'd, and all The rebel angels bellow'd in their fall. A Have angels sinn'd! and shall not man beware? How shall a son of earth decline the snare? Not folded arms, and slackness of the mind, Can promise for the safety of mankind: None are supinely good: through care and pain, And various arts, the steep ascent we gain. This is the scene of combat, not of rest, Man's is laborious happiness at best; On this side death his dangers never cease, His joys are joys of conquest, not of peace. If then, obsequious to the will of fate, And bending to the terms of human state, When guilty joys invite us to their arms, When beauty smiles, or grandeur spreads her charms, The conscious soul would this great scene display, Engag'd with angels she would greatly stand, Instructed thus to shun the fatal spring, Ah, mournful sight! the blissful earth, who late At leisure on her axle roll'd in state: While thousand golden planets knew no rest, Still onward in their circling journey prest; A grateful change of seasons, some to bring, And sweet vicissitude of fall and spring: Some through vast oceans to conduct the keel, And some those wat'ry worlds to sink or swell: Around her some their splendors to display, And gild her globe with tributary day; This world so great, of joy the bright abode, Heaven's darling child, and favʼrite of her God,' Now looks an exile from her father's care, Deliver❜d o'er to darkness and despair. Nó sun in radiant glory shines on high; No light but from the terrors of the sky: Fall'n are her mountains, her fam'd rivers lost, One universal ruin spreads abroad; Nothing is safe beneath the throne of God. Such, earth, thy fate: what then canst thou afford To comfort, and support, thy guilty lord? Man, haughty lord of all beneath the moon, How must he bend his soul's ambition down? Prostrate the reptile own, and disavow His boasted stature, and assuming brow? Claim kindred with the clay, and curse his form, That speaks distinction from his sister worm? What dreadful pangs the trembling heart invade! LORD, why dost thou forsake whom thou hast made? Who can sustain thy anger? who can stand Beneath the terrors of thy lifted hand? It flies the reach of thought: O save me, Power Of powers supreme, in that tremendous hour! Thou, who beneath the frown of fate hast stood, And in thy dreadful agony sweat blood; Thou, who for me, through ev'ry throbbing vein, Hast felt the keenest edge of mortal pain; Whom Death led captive thro' the realms below, And taught those horrid mysteries of woe: Defend me, O my God! O save me, Power Of powers supreme, in that tremendous hour! From east to west they fly, from pole to line, Imploring shelter from the wrath divine; Beg flames to wrap, or whelming seas to sweep, Seas cast the monster forth to meet his doom, So fares a traitor to an earthly crown; But why this idle toil to paint that day? And is there a Last Day? and must there come A sure, a fix'd, inexorable doom? Ambition swell, and thy proud sails to show, |