(seq. 73)

68

But all attention wakes to swells the scene

Of dust dissolving & of worlds terrene,

That must commence thy soul a glorious saint,

Or damn it all a devil, or with paint

Infernal, stamp that all detested name,

That's registerd in hell with vivid flame,

That nought obliterates or can erace,

But brightly shines, & brighter when distress

Encreasing bears the down in couded flames,

With words of woe redoubling all thy pains,

Thy soul in torture, & thy hope thy dread,

That dare not raise the wish to lift thy head,

From off the burning billow fraught with death,

That gives thee pain, but will not take thy breath ~

For scenes like these prepare, nor wander far

In worlds like yours, to mingle with the war

Of pleasures tempting & in sportive dreams,

That drown thy senses in those putrid streams,

Intoxicating souls of better mould,