Thy sin, that whelmed this earth in days of yore,
Shall draw upon it quenchless fire
With flaming torrents wildly rushing o'er -
A prey to conflagration dire;
If thou wouldst 'scape this dreadful fate,
I pray thee counsel take from me,
To Mercy's city straightway flee
For life within its gate.
Behold that city's peerless might
Withstanding all oppression -
Then flee thereto in thy sad plight,
Be free from sin's possession.
Behold thy refuge in this dreary land
Where all may find true, peaceful rest,
A rock, impregnable on every hand,
Where perfect love reigns ever blest;
We sinful men, the way must search,
And there in faith for pardon pray,
And live a blissful, tranquil day
Within the Holy Church.
II.--THE VISION OF DEATH IN HIS NETHERMOST COURT
One long, cold, and dark winter's night, when one-eye'd Phoebus well nigh
had reached his utmost limit in the south and, from afar, lowered upon
Great Britain and all the Northern land, and when it was much warmer in
the kitchen of Glyn Cywarch {43a} than at the top of Cader Idris, and
better in a cosy room with a warm bedfellow than in a shroud in the
lychgate, I was meditating upon a talk I had had by the fireside with a
neighbour concerning the brevity of human life, and how certain it was
that death would come to all, and yet how uncertain its coming.
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