The tapered pomp—the halleluiah’s swell,
Shall o’er the soul’s devotion cast a spell,
Till visions cross the rapt enthusiast’s glance,
And all the scene becomes a waking trance.
Should Fate put far—far off that glorious scene,
And gulfs of havoc interpose between,
Imagine not, ye men of every clime,
Who act, or by your sufferance share the crime—
Your brother Abel’s blood shall vainly plead
Against the “deep damnation” of the deed.