The triumph of infidelity: a poem.

Supposed to be written by Timothy Dwight, D.D. of Greenfield in Connecticut, in 1788

Ere yet the Briton left our happy shore,
Or war’s alarming clarion ceas’d to roar,
What time the morn illum’d her purple flame,
Thro’ air’s dread wilds the prince of darkness came.
A cloud his gloomy car; his path around,
Attendant whirlwinds gave a fearful sound,
Before him dragons wound their bloody spires;
Far shot behind him death’s Tartarean fires:
To image heaven’s high state, he proudly rode,
Nor seem’d he less than hell’s terrific God.
While, full before him, dress’d in beauteous day,
The realms of freedom, peace, and virtue lay;
The realms, where heav’n, ere Time’s great empire fall,
Shall bid new Edens dress this dreary ball;
He frown’d; the world grew dark; the mountains shook,
And nature shudder’d as the spirit spoke.