Once more religion's cause in vain
The gentle stranger pleads;
Once more, alas! his sullen frere
A willing victim leads.
'Dash on!' the harden'd sinner cries;
'Shalt thou disturb our sport?
No! boldly would I urge the chase
In heaven's own inmost court.
'What reck I then thy pious rage?
No mortal man I fear:
Not god in all his terrors arm'd
Should stay my fix'd career.'
He cracks his whip, he winds his horn,
He calls his vassal-crew;
Lo! horse and hound, and sage and cell,
All vanish from his view.
All, all, are gone!—no single rack
His eager eye can trace;
And silence, still as death, has hush'd
The clamors of the chase.
In vain he spurs his courser's sides,
Nor back nor forward borne;
He winds his horn, he calls aloud,
But hears no sound return.
And now inclos'd in deepest night,
Dark as the silent grave,
He hears the sullen tempest roar,
As roars the distant wave.
Loud and louder still the storm
Howls through the troubled air;
Ten thousand thunders from on high
The voice of judgment bear.
Accursed before god and man,
Unmoved by threat or prayer;
Creator, nor created, aught
Thy frantic rage would spare.
'Think not in vain creation's lord
Has heard his creature's groan;
E'en now the torch of vengeance flames
High by his awful throne.