6
Ah who can tell the anguish of that heart
In which is fixed the Judge’s vengeful dart,—
The speechless horror that must fill that soul
O’er which the fiery waves of eonceieace roll;
Who knows that in a few short hours at most
He must ingloriously give up the ghost,
With all his miserable hopes destroyed,
And with a multitude of fears annoyed ;
And, if unpardoned when deprived of breath,
Doomed to endure the dreadful second death!
Yet what is Pritchard, after all we’ve said,
But just one stream from that same fonntainhead
Whence all the offspring of old Adam flow,—
A poor, deluded ehild of sin and woe.
Sinee Satan poisoned that great fountainhead,
Its streams have all been spiritually dead.
There are more suicides than men suppose,—
Each sin administers a deadly dose.
“Thou hast destroyed thyself,” the Lord deelares,—
A condemnation every mortal shares.
There are more murderers than men suppose,—
All sinners are their neighbours’ deadly foes.
How many a husband poisons his poor wife,—
By his ill-treatment takes away her life ;
And many a wife—alas! it must be said—
Has thus consigned her husband to the dead.
Strong drink has weakened love in many a heart,
And made it play the murd’rer’s horrid part.
And love of gold, that root of every ill,
