University of Virginia Library

But Oh!—what dismal Scenes of Woe
Open in yonder Gulph below!
See! how the fiery Surges swell,
And dash against the Cope of Hell.
The sulph'rous undulating Flames
Thro' the thick Gloom shed awful Gleams;
Pale Gleams that but expose to Sight
The Horrors of eternal Night.
Ah! there, forever, ever lost,
On these dire Billows ever tost,
Some of my wretched Kindred roar,
Feeling the Flames they scorn'd before.
When Mercy call'd, they would not turn;
Now Mercy frowns, and they must burn.
Now Justice makes the Rebels feel
The Tortures of the restless Wheel.
Now nail'd to Racks of endless Pain,
They cry for some Relief in vain.
Deep Groans and Screams torment the Air,
The horrid Language of Despair.
The Vulture, Conscience, preys within;
Once charming, now tormenting Sin
In all her hellish Colours glares,
And pays her Slaves the long Arrears
For all the painful Drudgery done—
Sad Wages! worse by far than none.
Ah! how they writhe, and agonize!
How wildly stare their flaming Eyes!
No Heart can think, no Language tell,
No Fancy paint the Pains they feel.

Yet in their greatest Pains they own
The Justice of th' Eternal Throne.
“Justice! all Justice! still they cry;
“By our own Folly here we lie.
“Where should we lie but in this Pit,
“Who made ourselves for Heav'n unfit?
“Alas! should Heav'n her Gates display,
“And take us to the Realms of Day;
“We Sons of Darkness, back to Night
“Would shrink, confounded with the Sight.
“And in these Glooms make our Abode,
“Rather than see a holy God.
“While sinful Passions rule our Breast,
“Not Heav'n itself can make us blest.
“Impossible we should be sav'd,
“While thus corrupted and deprav'd.
“Nor do these raging Flames refine
“Our Spirits from the Dross of Sin;
“But still we harden in the Fire,
“And still our Lusts new Strength acquire,
“The Bliss we would not have, we lose;
“And have the Portion that we chose.”

O! did surviving Mortals know
The Pains their Kindred feel below;
O! did they know the dire Reward
For all the Slaves of Sin prepar'd;
How would they shrink from Vice's Charms,
And thrust the Monster from their Arms!
The smooth broad Road with Trembling shun,
Where Thousands walk'd, and were undone!
At the loud Call of Mercy stop,
And eager catch the offer'd Hope!

But all these real Terrors seem
But frightful Tales and Dreams to them.
Their Fellow-Sinners die around;
They lay their Reliques in the Ground:
The ghastly Corpse they only view,
But Oh! could they the Soul pursue;
Pursue her t'other Side of Death,
To her eternal Home beneath;
What Terrors would alarm the Heart!
How would the thoughtless Sinner start!
What Fear the Hypocrite surprize,
And tear away his base Disguise!

Or might abandon'd Ghosts again
Visit the Earth, and talk with Men:
Might they in human Ears proclaim
The Torture of infernal Flame:
In Characters majestic draw
The Honours of th' insulted Law:
Sin and its heavy Punishment
In their infernal Colours paint:
With flaming Tongues aloud expose,
The crying scarlet Guilt of those
Who dare neglect a dying God,
And trifle with redeeming Blood:
How would a sleeping World awake,
And conscious Guilt confounded quake!
Security should take th' Alarm,
And shudder at th' impending Harm.
Hardy Prophaneness learn to shrink;
And thoughtless Luxury to think.
Misers no more with Gold bewitch'd,
Should damn themselves to be enrich'd.
No more the Proud for empty Fame,
Should sink in everlasting Shame.
No more th' insulted Heavens should hear
The dull Formality of Prayer;
But flaming high, Devotion's Fire
In Zeal importunate aspire.
Spiritless Breath and languid Zeal
No more eternal Truths reveal;
Nor cold Harangues, or Trifles vain,
The solemn Pulpit more prophane.
The Thunders of the Law should sound,
And hardy Sinners tremble round:
Jesus allure with winning Charms
Despairing Sinners to his Arms.

So Fancy dreams.—But if the Law
Fails to inspire a pious Awe,
And even the Gospel cannot draw;
In vain Apostles from the Dead
Might Thunder Wrath, and urge and plead:
In vain infernal Messengers
Would try t' alarm presumptuous Ears.
The trembling Fright would soon be o'er,
And all ascrib'd to Fancy's Pow'r.
Or frequent Apparitions grow
Familiar, and be treated so.