They'll hear the trumpet's blast, no soothing lyre—)
Unto the devil's proud, poor dupes ensnar'd,
No longer bold against God's Son t' conspire,
Their sin and all its damage unrepair'd,—
"Depart, ye cursed, into endless fire,
For Satan and his angel-hosts prepar'd!"
18. PRAYER.
The humble peasant on the mountain's side