"Thus would I ask:--'Nay, let me question now, How sink my sayings in your bosoms? how? Feel you a quickening? drops the subject deep? Stupid and stony, no! you're all asleep; Listless and lazy, waiting for a close, As if at church--Do I allow repose? Am I a legal minister? do I 480 With form or rubrick, rule or rite, comply? Then, whence this quiet, tell me, I beseech? One might believe you heard your rector preach, Or his assistant dreamer;--Oh! return, Ye times of burning, when the heart would burn. Now hearts are ice, and you, my freezing fold, Have spirits sunk and sad, and bosoms stony-cold,' "Oh! now again for those prevailing powers, Which once began this mighty work of ours; When the wide field, God's temple, was the place, 490 And birds flew by to catch a breath of grace; When 'mid his timid friends and threat'ning foes, Our zealous chief as Paul at Athens rose: When with infernal spite and knotty clubs The ill-one arm'd his scoundrels and his scrubs; And there were flying all around the spot Brands at the preacher, but they touch'd him not; Stakes brought to smite him, threaten'd in his cause, And tongues, attuned to curses, roar'd applause; Louder and louder grew his awful tones, 500 Sobbing and sighs were heard, and rueful groans; Soft women fainted, prouder man express'd Wonder and wo, and butchers smote the breast; Eyes wept, ears tingled; stiff'ning on each head, The hair drew back, and Satan howl'd and fled. "In that soft season, when the gentle breeze Rises all round, and swells by slow degrees; Till tempests gather, when through all the sky The thunders rattle, and the lightnings fly; When rain in torrents wood and vale deform, 510 And all is horror, hurricane, and storm: So, when the preacher in that glorious time, Than clouds more melting, more than storm sublime, Dropp'd the new word, there came a charm around; Tremors and terrors rose upon the sound; The stubborn spirits by his force he broke, As the fork'd lightning rives the knotted oak. Fear, hope, dismay, all signs of shame or grace, Chain'd every foot, or featured every face; Then took his sacred trump a louder swell, 520 And now they groan'd they sicken'd, and they fell; Again he sounded, and we heard the cry Of the word-wounded, as about to die; Further and further spread the conquering word, As loud he cried--'the battle of the Lord.' Ev'n those apart who were the sound denied, Fell down instinctive, and in spirit died. Nor [stay'd] he yet--his eye, his frown, his speech, His very gesture had a power to teach; With outstretch'd arms, strong voice and piercing call, 530 He won the field, and made the Dagons fall; And thus in triumph took his glorious way, Through scenes of horror, terror, and dismay."