A sprinkling slight on Jachin’s Sunday-coat:
All doubt was over: - when the flock were bless’d,
In wrath he rose, and thus his mind express’d: -
“Foul deeds are here!” and saying this, he took
The Clerk, whose conscience, in her cold-fit, shook:
His pocket then was emptied on the place;
All saw his guilt; all witness’d his disgrace:
He fell, he fainted, not a groan, a look,
Escaped the culprit; ’twas a final stroke -
A death-wound never to be heal’d - a fall