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This spoken, from his seat the Pastor rose,
And moved towards the grave;—instinctively
His steps we followed; and my voice exclaimed,
"Power to the Oppressors of the world is given,
A might of which they dream not. Oh! the curse,
To be the Awakener of divinest thoughts,
Father and Founder of exalted deeds,
And to whole Nations bound in servile straits
The liberal Donor of capacities
More than heroic! this to be, nor yet
Have sense of one connatural wish, nor yet
Deserve the least return of human thanks;
Winning no recompence but deadly hate
With pity mixed, astonishment with scorn!"
When these involuntary words had ceased,
The Pastor said, "So Providence is served;
The forked weapon of the skies can send
Illumination into deep, dark Holds,
Which the mild sunbeam hath not power to pierce.
Why do ye quake, intimidated Thrones?
For, not unconscious of the mighty debt
Which to outrageous Wrong the Sufferer owes,
