Collected poems of Samuel Davies : 1723-1761 :: :: University of Virginia Library

VIII. A guilty Conscience. (annext to a Sermon on 1 John iii. 20. Nov. 25. 1750.)

1.

Ah! who can bear this twinging Smart,
That tortures and corrodes my Heart!
These guilty Horrors, that molest
This self-condemn'd, self-tort'ring Breast!

2.

Tremendous Prospects strike mine Eye,
Through vast, unknown Futurity:
Grim Death a thousand Terrors wears,
And ready to arrest appears.

3.

I view with a distracted Stare,
The dread eternal Regions near;
Tortures, and Racks, and quenchless Fire,
And Shrieks, and Groans, and Torments dire!

4.

The wrathful Heav'ns vindictive frown,
And Thunders murmur to be down,
To blast a Worm that durst provoke
Omnipotence to give the Stroke.

5.

Surmises, Fears and Jealousies
In this self-conscious Bosom rise;
And prest with Guilt my Spirits sink,
When I allow myself to think.

6.

But ah! this giddy rambling Soul,
Ere a few fleeting Moments roll,
Some vain enchanting Toy admits,
And her unhappy Case forgets.

7.

Amusements or th' intrusive Care
Of this vain World, my Thoughts ensnare:
My solemn Resolutions fly,
All lost in thoughtless Levity.

8.

But ah! the Agony returns;
Again my Spirit pines and mourns;
Again dire-boding Fears surround
My shudd'ring Soul, and deeply wound.

9.

A frightful Thought will sudden dart,
And, unexpected, pierce the Heart.

Pain would I shun these shocking Views,
But Conscience restless still pursues.

10.

A cheerful Aspect I assume,
But all within is dismal Gloom:
Or if I lose the inward Pain
A Moment, ah! it gnaws again.

11.

I leave this gloomy Solitude,
And mingle with th' unthinking Crowd;
There trifle, talk, and laugh awhile;
But ah! the Anguish will recoil.

12.

In Crowds and Noise the guilty Mind
Some anxious Intervals will find:
Guilt whispers Terror in the Breast,
And interrupts the transient Rest.

13.

Oh! Misery 'til now unknown!
I am a Self-Tormenter grown:
Nor can I my Accuser shun,
Unless I from myself could run.

14.

Oh Sin! is this the dire Reward
For all thy wretched Slaves prepar'd!
Are these, alass! are these the Fruits
Of all my pleasing vain Pursuits!

15.

Ah! had I kept the narrow Road,
Where the blest Few enjoy their God,
Then all serene, unmov'd with Guilt,
These Horrors I had never felt.

16.

Oh! can a guilty Wretch obtain
A Balm to ease this twinging Pain?
Or must he always feel the Road
Of Conscience, and an angry God?

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17.

Jesus! if any Help remains,
It flows from Thy dear bleeding Veins:
Nothing can please an angry God,
Or angry Conscience, but Thy Blood.

18.

Oh! dare I yet with wishful Eyes,
Look for Salvation from the Skies?
Oh! will that Blood my Sins have spilt,
Relieve my Mind, and wash my Guilt?

19.

All gracious Saviour! Oh! remit
A Rebel prostrate at Thy Feet:
He has no other Place to fly;
If die he must, here let him die!

20.

Say, shall that Hand that patient bore
To be by Nails and Torments tore,—
Oh! wilt Thou now, vindictive stretch
That Hand to crush an humble Wretch!

21.

No! Blessed Jesus! rather slay
These Sins that led my Soul astray:
O make my Heart and Conscience clean,
And give me Heav'n and Peace within!

I do not mean that presumptuous Libertines ought to ease their Consciences by an imaginary Dependance on Christ: But that humble conscious Penitents should place their only Trust in His Righteousness, both to relieve them from the Horrors of Guilt, and deliver them from their former Slavery to Sin.