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JOANNA'S PROPHECY.
ARGUMENT.
The Prophecy of the destruction of Bath, on Good Friday last, which afforded so memorable an instance of the credulity of the nineteenth century, cannot yet be forgotten. With the usual fate of reports, which “gather as they roll,” the terrific denunciation had, when it reached Reading, been extended to Bristol and London; one of which was to be overwhelmed by the tide, and the other destroyed by fire, at the same moment that Bath was to be swallowed up by an earthquake. Under these impressions, the following poem was written; and the result of the former part of the prophecy happily precludes the necessity of apologizing to this modern Cassandra for having added fresh horrors to her dreadful prediction.
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Death hovers o'er the fated crowd;
Fly to some wood-embosom'd home,
Far from the city's splendid dome,
Fly, fly, whilst yet you may!
Woe to the day of fear and dread,
The day the blest Redeemer bled!
E'en in the consecrated hour,
Again shall midnight darkness lour,
And cloud the noon-tide ray.
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From Cambria's hills to Devon's shore;
Red flashes light the darken'd Heaven,
Trees, mountains, rocks, in twain be riven,
Whilst earth shall ope her womb.
Then tremble, sinners! for in vain
Ye fly, ye death-devoted train!
Vainly the screams of terror rise!
While shrieks of madness rend the skies,
Closes your living tomb.
Bristol, no more to Afric's strand,
Thy ships shall part from Freedom's land,
Thy deeds are past. Th' o'erwhelming tide
Shall sweep away thy wealth, thy pride,
Destroy thy very name.
Bath, fair abode of vanity,
Oh, where is now thy revelry?
O'erthrown thy domes, thy storied walls,
Gay nobles perish in thy halls,
With many a beauteous dame.
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Where lovely cities gaily smil'd,
Rocks, ruins, pillars, mountains frown,
And echo to the dismal groan
Of sorrow and of pain.
Vainly yon buried wretches strive,
Ne'er shall they leave those walls alive:
Yon frantic mother, to her breast
Her lifeless child has fondly prest,
Nor knows her cares are vain.
There dead and dying men I see,
In every form of misery;
Those sounds of woe, those sights of fear,
I still must see, I still must hear,
With brain to madness driven.
But what is yonder blazing light,
That glares upon my aching sight;
Now soars in dazzling columns high,
Now casts red radiance on the sky,
And lights the eastern Heaven?
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Her millions from their fiery grave!
Oh! grant the sons of wealth and crime,
Some short reprieve, some little time,
For penitence and prayer!
It may not be—the blaze is o'er;
The smouldering ruins glare no more;
But long shall England's sorrows rise,
Widows and orphans pour the cries
Of anguish and despair!
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