University of Virginia Library

Search this document 

294

FOR THE GENERAL FAST. 1832.

The wrath of God—the wrath of God—
Is pour'd upon a guilty land:
Who can resist His awful rod?
His gather'd vengeance who withstand?
What may this vast corruption be,
That makes our God His face to hide—
That flows as hugely as the sea,
And swallows all it reaches?—Pride.
The pride of reason and of power,
The pride of knowledge and of skill,
The pride of fashion's painted flower,
And of ungovernable will.
Pride—that deforms our beauteous vales
With riot fierce and gloomy rage—
That makes o'erflow our groaning gaols
With desperate youth and harden'd age.
Pride—that the towering statesman steels
To point the unhesitating wound,
And reckless what his victim feels,
To dart sarcastic lightnings round.
Pride—that perverts the sacred theme
By glosses drawn from man's decrees—
That makes an atom judge supreme
Of heaven's unfathom'd mysteries;

295

That bids the pamper'd heir of wealth
From misery's plaint regardless turn;
The confident in youth and health
Grey hairs and pale diseases spurn;
Self-honour'd virtue shut the door
On penitence for errors past;
Self-worshipp'd wit disdain the lore
That sage antiquity held fast;
Half-letter'd pedantry assume
The lofty magisterial speech;
And to its own base level doom
The heights it ne'er was given to reach;
All sects, all classes, all degrees
Of men that move beneath the sun,
One universal madness seize
Of struggling not to be out-done.
Hence mutual jealousies and fears;
Deadly revenges; devilish hates;
And hours perform the work of years
In urging on the fall of states.
—Haste, Britain, to the mercy-seat,
And gird thy robe of sackcloth on;
And thus in solemn strain repeat,
Devoutly prostrate at the throne—
“The wrath of God—the wrath of God—
Is pour'd upon a guilty land:
None can resist His awful rod;
His gather'd vengeance none withstand.

296

“Yet, Lord, our humble offering take,
And turn no more thy face aside,
Whilst at thy altar we forsake
Our rebel wit—our idol Pride.
“The festering plagues that round us wait
Are but the type of that within.
O God! of thy great power abate
The moral pestilence of sin!
“So may our land thy holy name
Again with hymns of triumph sing;
Again with ceaseless shout proclaim—
The Lord of Hosts is Britain's king!”