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النشر الإلكتروني

Became its boast.-One murder made a villain,
Millions a hero.-Princes were privileg'd

To kill, and numbers sanctified the crime.
Ah! why will kings forget that they are men!
And men that they are brethren? Why delight
In human sacrifice? Why burst the ties

Of nature, that should knit their souls together
In one soft bond of amity and love;

Yet still they breathe destruction, still go on
Inhumanly ingenious to find out

New pains for life, new terrors for the grave:
Artificers of Death! still monarchs dream
Of universal empire growing up

From universal ruin.-Blast the design,
Great God of Hosts, nor let thy creatures fall
Unpitied victims at Ambition's shrine!

Yet say, should tyrants learn at last to feel,
And the loud din of battle cease to roar;
Should dove-ey'd Peace o'er all the earth extend
Her olive branch, and give the world repose,

Would Death be foil'd? Would health, and strength, and youth,

Defy his power? Has he no arts in store,

No other shafts save those of war?-Alas!

Ev'n in the smile of peace, that smile which sheds

A heavenly sunshine o'er the soul, there basks
That serpent Luxury; war its thousands slays,
Peace its ten thousands: in th' embattled plain,
Though Death exults, and claps his raven wings,
Yet reigns he not ev'n there so absolute,
So merciless, as in yon frantic scenes
Of midnight revel and tumultuous mirth,
Where in th' intoxicating draught conceal'd,
Or couch'd beneath the glance of lawless love,
He snares the simple youth, who nought suspecting
Means to be blest-but finds himself undone.

Down the smooth stream of life the stripling darts, Gay as the morn; bright glows the vernal sky, Hope swells his sails, and fancy steers his course; Safe glides his little bark along the shore, Where virtue takes her stand; but if too far He launches forth, beyond discretion's mark, Sudden his tempest scowls, the surges roar, Blot his fair day, and plunge him in the deep. O sad but sure mischance! O happier, far To lie like gallant Howe, midst Indian wilds, A breathless corse, cut off by savage hands In earliest prime, a generous sacrifice To freedom's holy cause; than so to fall, Torn immature from life's meridian joys, A prey to vice, intemperance, and disease,

Yet die ev❜n thus, thus rather perish still, Ye sons of pleasure, by th' Almighty stricken, Than ever dare (tho' oft, alas! ye dare)

To lift against yourselves the murderous steel
To wrest from God's own hand the sword of justice,
And be your own avengers.-Hold, rash man,
Though with anticipating speed thou'st rang'd
Through every region of delight, nor left.
One joy to gild the evening of thy days,
Though life seem one uncomfortable void,
Guilt at thy heels, before thy face despair,
Yet gay this scene, and light this load of woe,
Compar'd with thy hereafter. Think, O think,
And ere thou plung'st into the vast abyss,
Pause on the verge awhile, look down and see
Thy future mansion. Why, that start of horror?
From thy slack hand why drops th' uplifted steel?
Didst thou not think such vengeance must await
The wretch, that with his crimes all fresh about him,
Rushes irreverent, unprepar'd, uncall'd,

Into his Maker's presence, throwing back,
With insolent disdain, his choicest gift?

Live then, while Heav'n in pity lends thee life,
And think it all too short to wash away,
By penitential tears, and deep contrition,
The scarlet of thy crimes. So shalt thou find

Rest to thy soul, so unappall'd shalt meet
Death when he comes, not wantonly invite
His lingering stroke. Be it thy sole concern
With innocence to live, with patience wait
Th' appointed hour; too soon that hour will come,
Though Nature run her course; but Nature's God,
If need require, by thousand various ways,
Without thy aid, can shorten that short span,
And quench the lamp of life.-Oh when he comes,
Rous'd by the cry of wickedness extreme,
To Heaven ascending from some guilty land,
Now ripe for vengeance; when he comes array'd
In all the terrors of Almighty wrath;

Forth from his bosom plucks his lingering arm,
And on the miscreant pours destruction down!
Who can abide his coming? Who can bear
His whole displeasure? In no common form
Death then appears, but starting into size
Enormous, measures with gigantic stride

Th' astonish'd earth, and from his looks throws round Unutterable horror and dismay.

All Nature lends her aid. Each element

Arms in his cause. Ope fly the doors of Heaven,

The fountains of the deep their barriers break,

Above, below, the rival torrents pour,

And drown creation, or in floods of fire

Descends a living cataract, and consumes

An impious race. Sometimes, when all seems peace,
Wakes the grim whirlwind, and with rude embrace
Sweeps nations to their graves, or in the deep
Whelms the proud wooden world; full many a youth
Floats on his watery bier, or lies unwept

On some sad desert shore. At dead of night,
In sullen silence stalks forth Pestilence:
Contagion close behind taints all her steps
With poisonous dew; no smiting hand is seen,
No sound is heard; but soon her secret path
Is mark'd with desolation; heaps on heaps
Promiscuous drop; no friend, no refuge near!
All, all, is false and treacherous around:

All that they touch, or taste, or breathe, is Death.

But, ah! what means that ruinous roar? Why fail
These tottering feet?-Earth to its centre feels
The Godhead's power, and trembling at his touch
Through all its pillars, and in every pore,

Hurls to the ground with one convulsive heave
Precipitating domes, and towns, and towers,
The work of ages. Crush'd beneath the weight
Of general devastation, millions find

One common grave: not ev'n a widow left
To wail her sons; the house that should protect,

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