Father of all! unfold, since thou art just,
Why does thy providence all coldly see
Pale innocence enchain’d that would be free,
Whilst fraud ascends the judgment-seat august.
Who nerves the arm of power which dares oppose
An impious resistance to thy will?
Shall holy zeal and timid reverence still
Groan at the feet of thy obdurate foes?
See! impious hands victorious banners wave!
Hark! virtue moans scarce heard amid the shout
Of insolent triumph, and its boisterous mirth!
Thus I complaining spoke: A form shone out,
Gravely it spoke: “Is thy soul’s centre earth?
Oh blind one! not to see beyond the grave!”