DR. PRITCHARD, &c.
Surely the harvest of the earth is near,
When such atrocious crimes are in the ear,—
Inhuman crimes, whose voiees reach the Sky,
And for the sickle of destruction cry.
If ere the world's deeeiver, prince of hell,
Did in the bosom of poor mortal dwell,—
Obtain entire possession of the soul,—
And bring it under his abhorr’d control,—
An abject slave, to exeeute his will,
Seduee, dissemble, falsify, and kill,—
A wretched tool to work his vilest plan,—
That foul, cold-blooded poisoner is the man!
No mortal could have acted such a part
Unless the devil had been in his heart.
How long, O gracious Heaven! wilt thou permit
Foul spirits from the dark, infernal pit,
To enter men, take up possession strong,
And to destruetion hurry them along!
O thou fair looking, but sin-blighted earth,
How long wilt thou eontinue to give birth
To horrid monsters in the form of man,
Who seil themselves to mischief, and who can,
With fiendish subtlety, torment and slay
The very wives that in their bosoms lay!
