Ah, wherefore Reason then if man can set

Its warnings at defiance? Why indeed

But still to guide him right, and to impart

The sense of future judgment if he err !

Since Heaven made naught in vain. Alas he finds

That not alone inward but outward sense

Still points him to his good, by friendly marks

So plainly set that he who runs may see

And guide himself by them. If he look round,
The balmy plants, the fruitful bending trees,
All nature teaches him that gracious Heaven

Is kind and bounteous: if he look again,

He soon perceives the thousand poor dependents
Who, like himself, require the kind provision

That nature has bestow'd: if he withhold

Aught from their wants that he has power to yield,
He mocks at nature's God, and conscience writes
"Guilty" upon his heart! But wherefore still
Is justice e'er defer'd ?—It is because

If her inflicting sword were always felt

When Reason is abused, the source of love
And sweet benevolence would never flow

In a full, pure, and voluntary stream;

But, still oppress'd with fears of quick revenge,

Would all be cold and heartless.

But, alas!

Not always is the sword of retribution

Kept hanging o'er in vain—yet though perhaps,

For mercy's trial, it may spare the head

Of miscreant guilt, till it o'erwhelm the wretch

With still severer judgment; yet the world,

This very world that speaks so loud of mercy,

Preaches of judgment too!

Behold its surface,

Still cover'd with the wreck of what was once

Far different in appearance. Ocean's bed,

Toss'd by the billows o'er the mountain top,

Seems to have risen against the very skies
To drown the voice of Mercy! Why, alas!
Oh why was this but for the crimes of man?

E

Since that which, bursting through the bonds of Nature,

Could sweep her bounties from the spreading earth,

Sure must be done by one that govern'd Nature;

(And whom but Him that form'd her at the first,) Because He saw his bounties undeserv'd;

And therefore, in his justice, swept them off

And ingrate man as well, since none could live

In such immense destruction unsustain'd

By his immediate hand.

Weak fallen man,

A god in judgment, but a worm in pow'r,

Merely the ruin of a heavenly being

Design'd for nobler fate! Still so unwise?

His very self is but a living record

Of judgment from the skies. As free to think,

As free to act as angels, but yet stain'd

With thoughts of conscious guilt! Though fate, though

nature

Might act upon his frame, yet what could shake

His stubborn will but proud unruly self?

Tyrants may strike, and falling rocks may crush, But cannot touch the soul; therefore the soul Was safe but for himself: since righteous Heaven Sure ne'er created guilt, for cruelty

And mercy never could be thus allied.

He sinn'd; was driv'n from Eden, and he liv'd

The sad memento of his own misdeed,

To hand the tale to others: they, alas,

They who had heard it from their fathers' mouths Still liv'd in disobedience! heavenly judgment

Then fell with dreadful havoc on the earth,

And swept the race away-those yet preserv'd

Perhaps obey'd from fear: their future sons

Receiv'd the sad account, but, still grown worse,

Call'd down the fire that curst Pentapolis

Burnt and consumed to ashes. Those, alas !

Who still escaped the wreck, untaught by Wisdom,

Harden'd their hearts in cruelty and hate

Until the fierce exterminating sword

Destroy'd their very names, and gave their place

To a peculiar nation, blest beyond

The common race of man. Oh, dreadful tale!

As much as they were favour'd more than others,
So much their wickedness exceeded still,

And shut their hearts against that glorious Being

Who came from Heaven to save them from their guilt That kindled with destruction: they destroy'd him

And gloried in the act; shutting their eyes.

To

open clear conviction of their crime,

And dared th' Almighty to his deepest wrath.
'Twas then his anger fell upon their heads
And swept them from existence. Sword and flame,
Famine and pestilence conjoin'd their rage

And swallow'd them in death; nor left a stone

Still towering in its place to speak the grandeur

That once adorn'd the spot!-Still lies that spot
A desolated and forsaken city.

Still ramble outcast, poor, despis'd, and wretched,
(Receiving on their heads their fathers' deeds).