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Such is thy doom, such scorn and hateful shame Await a ruthless tyrant's perishable name.

III. 1.
Arise, avenge his impious guilt;
By the victor's thirsty hand,
Let his children's blood be spilt,

And civil discord shake the land.
To distant regions let them roam,
Far from their gods and native home,
But meet no fond relief:

In vain they
their foes pursue;
Fresh toils arise and dangers ever new,

With hopeless misery crowned and slow consum

ing grief.

JII. 2.

Cease, nor thy haughty trophies boast.-
Thy power is gone, thy splendour lost.
No more thy crowded streets among
The humming multitudes shall throng;
No more thy festive sons rejoice
With tabret and melodious voice;
Around thee desolation throws
A melancholy dread repose:
Save from the dome and pillared fanes
The solitary owl complains;

Or obscene Satyrs 'midst the ruins cry,

And wake the live-long night with hideous sym

phony.

III. 3.

Swoln with the snows and drenching rain,

The streams which thro' the champain take

Their mazy course,
With rapid force

Shall deluge all the fertile plain;
Around thy antique towers the fetid lake

Shall spread its stagnate steams, and hide
Each vestige of thy former pride.
Thus hath the LORD irrevocably swarn
Who quells the guilty proud in evil hour,
And leaves to future multitudes unborn

The dread example of his wrathful power. Tyrants abashed, in desperation groan, And learn from others' crimes to tremble for their

own.

THE CURE OF SAUL.-Dr. Brown.

"VENGEANCE, arise from thy infernal bed, "And pour thy tempest on his guilty head!” Thus Heaven's decree, in thunder's sound, Shook the dark abyss profound.

The unchained Furies come!

Pale Melancholy stalks from Hell:

Th' abortive offspring of her womb,
Despair and Anguish, round her yell.
By sleepless terror Saul possessed,
Deep feels the fiend within his tortured breast,
Midnight spectres round him howl:

Before his eyes,

In troops they rise;

And seas of horror overwhelm his soul.

Haste; to Jesse's son repair:
He best can sweep the lyre,
Wake the solemn sounding air,

And lead the vocal choir:
On ev'ry string soft-breathing raptures dwell,
To sooth the throbbings of the troubled breast;
Whose magic voice can bid the tides of passion

swell,

Or lull the raging storm to rest.

Sunk on his couch, and loathing day,
The heav'n-forsaken monarch lay :
To the sad couch the shepherd now drew near;
And, while th' obedient choir stood round,
Prepar'd to catch the soul-commanding sound,
He drop'd a genʼrous tear.—
Thy pitying aid, O GOD, impart !
For lo, thy arrows drink his heart!

The mighty song from chaos rose.—
Around his throne the formless atoms sleep,
And drowsy darkness broods upon the deep :—
"Let there be light!"-Th' Almighty said:
And lo, the radiant sun,

Flaming from his orient bed,

His endless course begun.

Thy glories, too, refulgent moon, he sung;
Thy mystic mazes, and thy changeful ray:
O, fairest of the starry throng!

Thy solemn orb of light
Guides the triumphant car of Night
Y'er silver clouds, and sheds a softer day!

K

Lead the soothing verse along :

He feels, he feels the pow'r of song.—

Ocean hastens to his bed;

The lab'ring mountain rears his rock-encumber'd head:

Down his steep and shaggy side

The torrent rolls his foaming tide ;

Then, smooth and clear, along the fertile plain
Winds his majestic waters to the main.
Flocks and herds the hills adorn;

The lark, high-soaring, hails the morn.
And while along yon crimson-clouded steep
The slow sun steals into the golden deep,
Hark! the solemn nightingale

Warbles to the woodland dale.
See, descending angels show'r
Heav'n's own bliss on Eden's bow'r;
Peace on Nature's lap reposes;
Pleasure strews her guiltless roses;
Joys divine in circles move,
Link'd with innocence and love.
Hail, happy love, with innocence combin'd!
All hail, ye sinless parents of mankind!

They paus'd:-the monarch, prostrate on his bed, Submissive bow'd his head;

Ador'd the works of boundless pow'r divine, Then, anguish-struck, he cried (and smote his

breast)

Why, why is peace the welcome guest
Of ev'ry heart but mine!

Now let the solemn numbers flow,
'Till he feel that guilt is woe.
Heav'nly harp, in mournful strain,
O'er yon weeping bow'r complain :
What sounds of bitter pangs I hear!
What lamentations wound mine ear!
In vain, devoted pair, these tears ye shed:
Peace with innocence is fled.

The messengers of Grace depart:

Death glares, and shakes the dreadful dart !*
Ah, whither fly ye, by yourselves abhorr'd,
To shun that frowning cherub's fiery sword ?-
Lo!

Hapless hapless pair,
Goaded by despair,

Forlorn, thro' desert climes they go !

Wake my lyre! can pity sleep,
When Heav'n is mov'd and angels weep!
Flow ye melting numbers, flow;
'Till he feel, that guilt is woe.-

What sounds of terror and distress
Rend yon howling wilderness!
The dreadful thunders sound;

The forked lightnings flash along the ground.
Why yawns that deep'ning gulph below?—
'Tis for Heav'n's rebellious foe :-

Fly, ye sons of Israel, fly,

Who dwells in Korah's guilty tents must die !— They sink !-Have mercy, LORD! Their cries In dreadful tumult rise!

Hark, from the deep their loud laments I hear! They lessen now, and lessen on the ear!

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