Our Torments Also May In Length Of

These Are Thy Glorious Works, Parent Of Good!

Now The Bright Morning-star, Day's Harbinger, Comes Dancing From The East.

Meanwhile The Adversary Of God And Man, Satan With Thoughts Inflamed Of Highest Design, Puts On Swift Wings, And Towards The Gates Of Hell Explores His Solitary Flight.

Avenge, O Lord, Thy Slaughtered Saints, Whose Bones Lie Scattered On The Alpine Mountains Cold; Ev'n Them Who Kept Thy Truth So Pure Of Old When All Our Fathers Worshipped Stocks And Stones Forget Not.

If All The World Should In A Pet Of Temp'rance, Feed On Pulse, Drink The Clear Stream, And Nothing Wear But Frieze, Th' All-giver Would Be Unthank'd, Would Be Unprais'd.