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Yet woes on woes shall tread, and pity weeps
O'er your fall'n city, and your slaughter'd heaps.
O ye, who sink in couches, soft with down,
And all your crimes in wine and music drown,
Who wrest the garment from the shiv'ring poor,
And snatch his pittance, to increase your store;
You, first the plagues and wants of war shall vex,
The captive yoke shall hang upon your necks,
And you shall groan in servitude and scorn,
As one who sorrows o'er his dead first-born.
O sinful nation! of thy God accurst,
Thy glory gone, and bending to the dust;
The arm that held thee in its fond embrace,
Shall hurl thee forth, to thine appointed place.
Go, hide thee in Mount Carmel—dive the deep;
Go, seek the slimy cells, where serpents creep,
Make thro' the earth's dark dens, thy secret path,
Thou canst not shun the purpose of his wrath!
"But who art thou?" The haughty ones reply'd,
"Presumptuous man!" with frantic rage, they cry'd,
"Flee to your woods, your mountains, and your flocks,
Go, drive your few sheep on the ragged rocks;
Who bade thee, herdman, leave thy wand'ring throng?
Who made thee judge of violence and wrong?"
