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Yet He, who summon'd from that distant rock,
The rough-clad man to leave his fleecy flock,
With strength will gird him, for his wants provide,
And hush the clamors of the sons of pride,
Or from these climes where fears and dangers roll,
Receive to endless rest the weary martyr'd soul.
Untir'd and undismayed my way I led,
Where proud Samaria's outstretch'd ramparts spread;
Yet long before I pass'd its outer gate,
I saw the work of judgment and of fate.
It seem'd a fearful desert scorch'd and dry,
Spread its brown heath, to meet the wondering eye;
The vanish'd verdure, and the wasted plain,
Disclos'd the march of a devouring train,
Before whose face the earth was green and fair,
Behind a wilderness all parch'd and bare;
The pining herds, a poor and piteous train,
Sought their accustom'd food, but sought in vain;
Some wild with anguish rang'd the mountain's side,
Some stood despairing in the meadows wide;
And some with wasted flesh, and panting breath,
Sunk gazing, mute and motionless in death.
