What, what can knowledge, virtue, fame, avail?
Crown they with happiness our mortal state?
Ah! no: what dire, unthought-of woes assail!
O wretched Man! thou art the slave of fate.
Lo! Romilly, in pangs, expiring lies!—
His frantic hand—O horror!—doom'd to bleed?—
His wakening Conscience opes her frighted eyes—
'O God!' she groans, 'I disavow the deed.'
His guardian Angel sheds a pitying tear;—
Then, fearless of the heavenly Judge's ire,
He leads his Spirit, blushing to appear,
Into the holy presence of her Sire.