By this deluding desert side?
O wanderer, turn;
O wanderer, stay;
Why will ye spurn
The voice to-day?
A little while--
An hour--may bring
A broken smile,
Death on the wing,
To bear thee down
By laden grief
Beneath his frown.
The time is brief.
Then stay, oh stay!
And lend an ear
To what the dead--
The dying say.
Thy doom is hid,
Thy death is near;
The Judge will bid
Thee soon appear.

THE WORLD'S END.

The gates of heaven are opened, and, behold,
The herald comes upon the wings of night,
When men in slumber lie, and when abroad
The robber goes to plunder what he can;
And when the lusty have gone forth to cull
A night's defilement in an evil way;
The gambler sitteth at his dizzy game,
The sotted drunkard feeds his bestial thirst,
And revel dancers are aloud in mirth.
Alike the heedless and the godly sleep,
When from the herald's waking trumpet comes
The awful and sonorous cadence, which
Shall roll around the earth from pole to pole--
More grand, more great, and more tremendous than
The voice of terror in the stormy sky,
As when a thousand thunders war therein
An angry war among the heavy clouds.
And at the sound the wicked tremble sore,
For now they know an awful doom at hand,
And quail to find no rescue from its power.
The robber drops the plunder from his hand;
The lusty startle at the mighty sound,
And from their beds of sin turn wildly forth;
And from his game the gambler leaps amazed
And terror-struck; whereas the drunkard wakes--
The sotted drunkard--from his stupid sleep,
And feels the awful terrors of the hour.
But by the righteous is the sound received
As the glad tidings which they long have sought;
For well they know the glory of the sign,
When He, their true Deliverer, shall come.
The earth shall tremble and rebound, and all
The graves shall ope their darkened mouths, until
The long-forgotten dead shall come therefrom.
Then He who is the Judge appears forth from
The heavenly gates; upon the lurid flame
His chariot shall roll, and on the clouds
Of sable smoke, down through the stormy sky,
Where roar tremendous thunders, mid the cries
Of agony and fear, which rise anon,
Heartrending, from the lost, in anguish sore,
Who call for shelter, but have no reply,
Save terrors still more awful than