The king, with pride, and shame, and anguish torn,
Shot fury from his eyes, and scorn.
The glowing youth,
Bold in truth,
(So still should Virtue guilty power engage)
With brow undaunted met his rage.
See, his cheek kindles into generous fire:
Stern, he bends him o'er his lyre;
And, while the doom of guilt he sings,
Shakes horror from the tortur'd strings.
What sounds of terror and distress
Rend yon howling wilderness!
The dreadful thunders sound;
The forked lightnings flash along the ground.
Why yawns that deep'ning gulph below? —
'Tis for heaven's rebellious foe: —
Fly, ye sons of Israel, fly,
Who dwells in Korah's guilty tents must die! —
They sink! — Have mercy, Lord! — Their cries
In dreadful tumult rise!
Hark, from the deep their loud laments I hear!
They lessen now, and lessen on the ear!
Now, destruction's strife is o'er!
The countless host
For ever lost!
The gulph is clos'd! — Their cries are heard no more! —