Page:Moral Pieces in Prose and Verse.pdf/43

  And clad in virtue's arms. The temper'd sword, long bath'd in blood, may break; The shield may be destroy'd; the well aim'd dart Err in its course; the warrior's eye grow dim; But the firm soul, whose trust is plac'd above, Shrinks not; tho' loud that last, dread trump should sound, Whose warning voice shall rend the solid earth, And give her glory to the whelming flame.

 

WHAT sounds are these, that on the hollow blast Of startled midnight reach the list'ning ear? They seem like shouts of conquest, join'd with shrieks Of mad despair, and the confusion wild Of those that fear or fly. And see the flames In spiry columns burst thro' wreaths of smoke Redd'ning the brow of night. O scene of woe! That pile superb, whose lofty dome arose 