Kings own its potent sway, and humbly bows
The gilded diadem upon their brows—
Its saving voice with Mercy speeds to all,
But ah! how few who quicken at the call—
Gentiles the favour'd 'little Flock' detest,
And Abraham's children spit upon their rest.
Once only since Creation's work, has night
Curtain'd with dark'ning Clouds its saving light,
What time the Ark majestically rode,
Unscath'd upon the desolating flood—