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When scenes are chang'd on this revolving earth,
When, lo! a mighty trump, one half conceald In clouds, one half to mortal
O pow'rful blast! to which no equal sound
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.
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 combạt, 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 inviţe us to their arins, When beauty smiles, or grandeur spreads her
charms, The conscious soul would this great scene display, Call down th' immortal hosts in dread array, The trumpet sound, the christian banner spread, And raise from silent graves the trembling dead; Such deep impression would the picture make, No power on earth her firm resolve could shake;
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 rolld 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 tlay; This world so great, of joy the bright abode, Heaven's darling child, and fav’rite of her GOD, Now look's an exile from her father's care, Deliver'd o'er to darkness and despair. Nò 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,
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 souls 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: 0 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 linc, Imploring shelter from the wrath divine; Beg flames to wrap, or whelming seas to sweep, Or rocks to yawn, compassionately deep: Seas cast the monster forth to meet his doom, And rocks but prison up for wrath to come.
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, Take all the winds that vanity can blow; Wealth on a golden mountain blazing stand, And reach an India forth in either hand;