Page:Poems - Southey (1799) volume 2.djvu/76

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Cold curdle in his veins, the creeping fleshGrew stiff with horror, and the heart forgotTo beat. Accursed hour! for man no moreTo Justice paid his homage, but forsookHer altars, and bow'd down before the shrineOf Wealth and Power, the Idols he had made.Then Hell enlarged herself, her gates flew wide,Her legion fiends rush'd forth. Oppression cameWhose frown is desolation, and whose breathBlasts like the Pestilence; and Poverty,A meagre monster, who with withering touchMakes barren all the better part of man,Mother of Miseries. Then the goodly earthWhich God had fram'd for happiness, becameOne theatre of woe, and all that GodHad given to bless free men, these tyrant fiendsHis bitterest curses made. Yet for the bestHath he ordained all things, the All-wise!For by experience rous'd shall man at lengthDash down his Moloch-Idols, Samson-like
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