Scourges for sin, the solemn tribe are sent;
Like fire and storms, they call us to repent;
But storms subside, and fires forget to rage.
These
are eternal scourges of the age:
’Tis not enough that each terrific hand
Spreads desolations round a guilty land;
But train’d to ill, and harden’d by its crimes,
Their pen relentless kills through future times.
Say, ye, who search these records of the dead-