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When rollid the awful darkness round,

When fiery splendors lick'd the ground,

When, in the pomp of clouds array’d,
The world's high Ruler fpake, display'd

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As drops the rain on thirsty plains,
As breathes the gale to languid swains,
In still, small sounds the tongue of Peace

Restores the heav'nly league of grace.

Cleans'd is the fin-polluted foul ;

The passions hear his mild controul.

The world's great Teacher walks with men below,

And points to future bliss, beyond this vale of woe.


'Tis past—and Mercy speaks no more,

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With banded force they sweep the skies,
Dispart old Ocean's swelling waves,

And ope the proud rock's flinty caves :
While pealing thunders hail the Judge supreme,

Angelic forms descend, and join the grand acclaim.

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And all unfurld, of glowing hue,


The red cross meets th' astonish'd view;

And lo! terrific in attire,

Th’archangel waves his sword of fire,

And blows the facred trump, whose quick’ning founds
Spread their tremendous call to Nature's farthest bounds.


Instant, promiscuous millions pour,

Of ev'ry age, from ev'ry shore ;

Fear-struck, and conscious of their doom,

The guilty wish the cov'ring tomb;

But Heav’n’s dread wrath, with clouded brow,

Condemns to lakes of gnashing woe:

While on the sons of virtue shine

Th’enliv’ning beams of love divine;

Enthron'd in bliss, they join the radiant train,

And tune the choral lyre, and swell the rapt'rous strain.



Sunt hîc etiam sua præmia laudi,
Sunt lachrymæ rerum, et mentem mortalia tangunt,

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Nor hope they now to view his whit’ning fail,

And from their coral cliffs the friendly stranger hail.


“ 'Tis ours no more, his steps to lead

Taheite's golden groves along,

No more beneath the bread-tree's shade

To court his stay with dance and song : Some adverse pow'r has call'd him o'er the main,

To fall on ruder ihores, by savage fury ilain.

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Ah! had we seen his fad Morai,

And watch'd in pensive silence round

His corse, as paly cold it lay,

How then had bled the willing wound?

Yet still our crimson tears for him shall flow,

As faithful mem'ry points the pang of inward woe.


But haply o’er the watry waste,

Where once his tall bark stem’d the tide,
His gentle shade may hither haste,

And near the Shed in secret glide ;
If ought of ditty'd moan, or fun’ral pray’r,
In fadly-pleasing founds, thrill through the conscious air.


Then Friendship, raise the piteous yell,

And stalk thy rounds in grim array ;


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