Alas, what then? The salmon and the salmon trout,
In that mad stream, are seen to gambol all about.
By him prepard upon the rocks, or hung on slender poles,
Not far above, on steep decline, where furious water rolls,
He dries his food, and thus ’tis savd from future harm.
’Tis nearly all he has of food—his clothes, they still are less, with which to keep him warm.
Now, why should man, poor wretched man, receive such prompt reply,
That when he broke the law of God, ’twas sure that he must die?
Yet linger first awhile, still wretched and forlorn,
To glean an almost naked earth, ’mongst thistle and the thorn?