Too soon a fatal destination found.
Words are but breath, but breath may kindle flame
Destined to level cities with the ground!
My God, from Thy dread wrath the judgment came,
But oh! my guilt, my wretchedness were still the same!
A fatal sword hung o’er my head unknown,
Yawned at my feet a precipice unseen!
One morn Montoro had gone forth alone,
Methought there was a sadness in his mien,
And tender had his words at parting been;