If in my rage the glitttering fword I whet;
And, fternly fitting, take the judgment-feat,
My juft awarding fentence dooms my foe,

And vengeance wields the blade, and gives the blow,
And deep in flesh the blade of fury bites,
And deadly deep my bearded arrow lights,
And both grow drunk with blood defil'd in fin,
When executions of revenge begin.

Then let his nation in a common voice,
And with his nation let the world rejoice:
For whether he for crimes or trials spill
His fervants blood, he will avenge it ftill;
He'll break the troops, he 'll scatter them afar,
Who vex our realm with defolating war.
And on the favour'd tribes and on the land,
Shed victories and peace, from Mercy's hand.
Here ceas'd the fong, and Ifrael look'd behind,
And gaz'd before, with unconfining mind,
And fix'd in filence and amazement faw
The ftrokes of all their state beneath the law.
Their recollection does its light present

To shew the mountain blefs'd with God's defcent,
To shew their wanderings, their unfix'd abode,
And all their guidance in the defart road.
Then where the beams of recollection go
To leave the fancy difpoffefs'd of show,
The fairer light of prophecy's begun,
Which, opening future days, fupplies their fun,
By fuch a fun (and fancy needs no more)
They see the coming times, and walk them o'er,

And

And now they gain that reft their travail fought,
Now milk and honey ftream along the thought.
Anon they feel their fouls the bleffing cloy,
And God 's forgot in full excess of joy.-
And oft they fin, and oft his anger burns,
And every nation's made their scourge by turns,
Till, oft repenting, they convert to God,
And he, repenting too, destroys the rod.
O nation timely warn'd in facred ftrain,
O never let thy Mofes fing in vain!
Dare to be good, and happiness prolong,
Or, if thy folly will fulfil the fong,
At least be found the feldomer in ill,
And ftill repent, and foon repent thee ftill;
When fuch fair paths thou shalt avoid to tread,
Thy blood will reft upon thy finful head;
Thy crime, by lafting, will fecure thy foe,
The gracious warning to the Gentiles go,
And all the world, that 's call'd to witness here,
Convinc'd by thine example, learn to fear.
The Gentile world, a myftic Ifrael grown,
Will in thy first condition find their own,
A God's defcent, a pilgrimage below,
And promis'd reft where living waters flow.
They'll fee the pen, describe in every trace
The frowns of anger, or the smiles of grace;
Why mercy turns afide, and leave to fhine,
What cause provokes the jealoufy divine;
Why justice kindles dire avenging flames,
What endless power the lifted arm proclaims;

Why mercy fhines again with chearful ray,
And glory double-gilds the lightsome day.
Though nations change, and Ifrael's empire dies,
Yet ftill the cafe on earth again may rife;
Eternal Providence its rule retains,

And ftill preferves, and ftill applies the strains.
'Twas fuch a gift, the Prophet's facred pen,
On his departure, left the fons of men;
Thus he, and thus the fwan her breath refigns,
(Within the beauty of poetic lines,)

He white with innocence, his figure the,

And both harmonious, but the fweeter he.
Death learns to charm, and, while it leads to bliss,
Has found a lovely circumftance in this,

To fuit the meekeft turn of eafy mind,

And actions chearful in an air refign'd.

Thou flock whom Mofes to thy freedom led,
How wilt thou lay the venerable dead?
Go (if thy fathers taught a work they knew)
Go build a pyramid to Glory due,

Square the broad bafe, with floping fides arise,
And let the point diminish in the skies.

There leave the corpfe, impending o'er his head
The wand whofe motion winds and waves obey'd,

On fable banners to the fight defcribe

The painted arms of every mourning tribe.
And thus may public grief adorn the tomb,
Deep-ftreaming downwards through the vaulted room.
On the black stone a fair infcription raise,

That fums his government to fpeak his praise,

And

And may the ftile as brightly worth proclaim
As if affection, with a pointed beam,

Engrav'd or fir'd the words, or honour due
Had with itself inlaid the tablet through.

But ftop the pomp that is not man's to pay,
For God will grace him in a nobler way.
Mine eyes perceive an orb of heavenly state,
With fplendid forms and light ferene replete
I hear the found of fluttering wings in air,
I hear the tuneful tongues of angels there:
They fly, they bear, they rest on Nebo's head,
And in thick glory wrap the reverend dead;
This errand crowns his fongs, and tends to prove
His near communion with the Quire above.
Now fwiftly down the fteepy mount they go,
Now swiftly glides their fhining orb below,
And now moves off, where rifing grounds deny
To fpread their valley to the distant eye.

Ye blefs'd inhabitants of glittering air,

You've borne the Prophet, but we know not where.
Perhaps, left Ifrael, over-fondly led,

In rating worth when envy leaves the dead,'
Might plant a grove, invent new rites divine,
Make him their idol, and his grave the shrine.
But what disorder? what repels the light?
And ere its feafon forces on the night?

Why sweep the spectres o'er the blasted ground?
What shakes the mount with hollow-roaring found?
Hell rolls beneath it, terror ftalks before

With fhrieks and groans, and horror bursts a door;

And Satan rifes in infernal state,

Drawn up by malice, envy, rage, and hate,
A darkening vapour with fulphureous steam,
In pitchy curlings edg'd by fullen flame,
And fram'd a chariot for the dreadful form,
Drives whirling up on mad. Confusion's storm.

Then fiercely burning where the Prophet dy'd,
Nor thall thy nation fcape my wrath, he cry'd;
This corpfe I'll enter and thy flock mislead,
And all thy miracles my lies fhall aid.

But where He's gone, and, by the scented sky,
The favourite courtiers have been lately nigh;
Oh, flow to bufinefs, curs'd in mischief's hour,
Trace on their odours, and if hell has power
This faid, with fpite and with a bent for ill,
He thot with fury from the trembling hill."

In vain, proud fiend, thy threats are half expreft,
And half lie choaking in thy fcornful breast,
His fhining bearers have perform'd their rite,
And laid him foftly down in fhades of night,'
A warriour heads the band, great Michael he,
Renown'd for victories in wars with thee,
A fword of flame to ftop thy course he bears,'
Nor has thy rage avail'd, nor can thy fnares;
The Lord rebuke thy pride! he meekly cries:
The Lord has heard him, and thy project dies.
Here Mofes leaves my fong, the tribes retire,
The defert flies, and forty years expire ;
And now, my fancy, for a while be ftill,
And think of coming down from Nebo's hill.

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