I with fear and terror quake, Whilst the pen to write I take; I will utter many a pray’r To the heaven’s Regent fair, That she deign to succour me, And I’ll humbly bend my knee; For but poorly do I know With my subject on to go; Therefore is my wisest plan Not to trust in strength of man. I my heavy sins bewail, Whilst I view the wo and wail Handed down so solemnly In the book of times gone by. Onward, onward, now I’ll move In the name of Christ above, And his Mother true and dear, She who loves the wretch to cheer. All I know, and all I’ve heard I will state—how God appear’d And to Noah thus did cry: Weary with the world am I; Let an ark by thee be built, For the world is lost in guilt; And when thou hast built it well, Loud proclaim what now I tell: Straight repent ye, for your Lord In his hand doth hold a sword. And good Noah thus did call: Straight repent ye one and all, For the world with grief I see Lost in vileness utterly. God’s own mandate I but do, He hath sent me unto you. Laugh’d the world to bitter scorn, I his cruel sufferings mourn; Brawny youths with furious air Drag the Patriarch by the hair; Lewdness governs every one: Leaves her convent now the nun, And the monk abroad I see Practising iniquity. Now I’ll tell how God, intent To avenge, a vapour sent, With full many a dreadful sign— Mighty, mighty fear is mine: As I hear the thunders roll, Seems to die my very soul; As I see the world o’erspread All with darkness thick and dread; I the pen can scarcely ply For the tears which dim my eye, And o’ercome with grievous wo, Fear the task I must forego I have purposed to perform.— Hark, I hear upon the storm Thousand, thousand devils fly, Who with awful howlings cry: Now’s the time and now’s the hour, We have licence, we have power To obtain a glorious prey.— I with horror turn away; Tumbles house and tumbles wall; Thousands lose their lives and all, Voiding curses, screams and groans, For the beams, the bricks and stones Bruise and bury all below— Nor is that the worst, I trow, For the clouds begin to pour Floods of water more and more, Down upon the world with might, Never pausing day or night. Now in terrible distress All to God their cries address, And his Mother dear adore,— But the time of grace is o’er, For the Almighty in the sky Holds his hand upraised on high. Now’s the time of madden’d rout, Hideous cry, despairing shout; Whither, whither shall they fly? For the danger threat’ningly Draweth near on every side, And the earth, that’s opening wide, Swallows thousands in its womb, Who would ‘scape the dreadful doom. Of dear hope exists no gleam, Still the water down doth stream; Ne’er so little a creeping thing But from out its hold doth spring: