Classic Poem

Sin haunts my steps, where e'er I fly,
In every place is ever nigh
As Streams from Mountain-Springs attend,
The Trav'llers still as they des[c]end;
So sin, the source of all my Woe,
Still bubbles up where e'er I go.
Sin spread a dark, tremendous Cloud
Of Horrors o'er my Solitude:
Presents a thousand Forms of Death
To shock my Soul from Duty's Path:
Wraps present Time in dreadful Gloom,
And damps my Hope of Time to come
Intimidates my Soul ashore,
And makes old Ocean louder roar;
Gives darker Horrors to the Storm,
And Danger a more shocking Form
Companion dire by Land or Sea!
No Bliss, no calm, 'till freed from thee,
And Change of Place is Change of Misery