A Sacred Lyric

Lock'd in the arms of balmy sleep, From every care of day, As silent as the folded sheep, And as secure I lay. Sudden, tremendous thunders roll; Quick lightenings round me glare; The solemn scene alarms my soul, And wakes the heart to prayer. Whate'er, O Lord, at this still hour, These awful sounds portend, Whether sole ensigns of thy power, Or groans for nature's end; Grant me to bear with equal mind, These terrors of the sky; For ever, as thou wilt, resign'd, Alike to live or die. If, wak'd by thy vindictive hand, This mighty tempest stirs That peal, the voice of thy command, These flames thy messengers: Welcome the bolt, where'er it fall Beneath the passing sun; Thy righteous will determines all, And let that will be done. But if, as nature's laws ordain, Nor destin'd by thy will, Each bolt exerts its wide domain, Self-authoriz'd to kill, Quick interpose, all-gracious Lord, In this remorseless night; Arise, and be alike ador'd For mercy, as for might. Vouchsafe, amidst this time of dread, Thy suppliant's voice to hear: O shield from harm each friendly head, And all my soul holds dear. Let it not kill where riot foul, Pours forth the drunken jest: Nor where the guilt-envenom'd soul Starts wild from troubled rest. A while O spare those sinful breasts, Whose deeds the night deform, Nor strike where smiling virtue rests, Unconscious of the storm. Succour the couch where beauty lies, All pale with tender fear; Where sickness lifts its languid eyes; O pour thy comforts there! Nor useless waste this moral night, Like common hours, away; But glow with wisdom's sacred light, More fair than orient day. Warn'd by each flash, may virtue rise, And with its glories spread, While every blasted bud of vice Shrinks in new terrors dead. So on that awful judgment day, Whose image shakes the soul, Tho' keenest lightenings shoot their ray, And loudest thunders roll; Well pleas'd, O Lord, each eye shall see Those final thunders hurl'd, And mark with joy, for love of thee, That flash which melts the world.