Classic Poem

How can he turn religious and adore
That God, he so devoutly moc'd before?
I will the depths of Providence reveal;
Th' Almighty's methods will I not conceal.
Yet why should I suggest what your own heart,
Where it not vain, might, better farr, impart?
On th' wicked's head this heavy fate shall come,
And this shall be from God th' Oppressor's doom:
His sons tho' more and lovelyer they are
Than their decrepit father's silver hayr,
Strong as the sons of Anak, bright and brave,
Shall shrowd theyr pride in an untimely Grave,
His daughters tho' more beauteous ev'ry one
Than the Seraphick spous of Solomon,
A Sisterhood as numerous and bright
As are the glorious starrs that guild the night,
A bloody cloud their glories shall eclips
Death shuts their killing eyes, their charming lips.
Tho like a golden harvest they appear
And ev'ry one a full, a laden ear:
Like Olive plants amidst their friends be grown,
The sword shall reap, the sword shall hew them down.
The sword and eager famin shall devour
All they enjoy in one unhappy hour.
His progenie shall unlamented dy:
Buried in black Oblivion shall they ly:
Unpitied to the dust they shall return,
Nor shall one pious tear bedew theyr Urn.
If he have silver plentifull as dust,
Gold pure as that of Ophir, both shall rust.
Let him have caskets whose each Orient gemm
Vies with the walls o'th' new Jerusalem:
Raiment more gorgeous, than the Lillies hiew,
When every snowy fold is pearld with dew:
He's but the just man's steward all the while;
The just shall wear the rayment, part the Spoyl.
The hous he builds, like that o'th' moths shall be
Too weak against the Wind's least battery.
Or if it stand the brunt of wind and rain,
'Twill stagger at a thundering Hurricane:
As Tents, it may remove from land to land,
But on a solid basis cannot stand.
The rich man shall depart, but not in peace
When he lyes down his horror shall increase.
Just when he's ripe for Vengeance and Heaven's frown
Death, ah too irksome Death, shall shake him down.
Gather'd he shall not be by that kind hand
Which plucks the righteous to blest Canaans land:
He opes his lids and surfetteth his eyes
With gazing over all his vanities,
Till some ill chance o'th' sodain dims his sight
And leaves him lost in an Eternall night.
As mighty waters shall his terrors roar,
He's stol'n away and shall be seen no more.
Hurri'd from his beloved home and tos't,
By th' East wind, fierce as that drownd Pharao's host.
Jehovah from whose hand he fain would flee
Shall add more sting to his calamity:
And when his glass has but few sands to run
His tragicomiqu' life now almost done,
At the last Act his deadliest shame shall be
To find an hissing for a Plaudite.