Classic Poem

I thought on every pensive thing,
That might my passion strongly move,
That might the sweetness sadness bring;
Oft did I think on death, and oft on Love,
The triumphs of the little God , and that same ghastly King .
The ghastly King , what has he done?
How his pale Territories spread!
Strait scantlings now of consecrated ground
His swelling Empire cannot bound,
But every day new Colonies of dead
Enhance his Conquests, and advance his Throne.
The mighty City sav'd from storms of war,
Exempted from the Crimson floud,
When all the Land o'reflow'd with blood,
Stoops yet once more to a new Conqueror:
The City which so many Rivals bred,
Sackcloth is on her loyns, and ashes on her head.
When will the frowning heav'n begin to smile;
Those pitchy clouds be overblown,
That hide the mighty Town,
That I may see the mighty pyle?
When will the angry Angel cease to slay;
And turn his brandisht sword away
From that illustrous Golgotha ...?