Classic Poem

The wicked's triumph is but short,
And quickly melts away;
His empty joy, and idle sport,
Does but a moment stay.

Though to the heaven his head he raise,
His grandeur to the sky;
Yet, lost, for aye, he and his praise,
Cloth'd in the dust shall lie.

He, miserable and forlorn,
Fades with a swift decay;
Cast, like his own vile dung, with scorn,
And with contempt, away.

These who his splendour did admire,
And saw his pomp before,
And, where is now his place; enquire,
Shall never see it more.

His short-liv'd fame and great esteem,
That gull'd him all his days,
Shall vanish like a wanton dream,
That in the fancy plays.

Yea, he shall by a sudden bane
Be chas'd away with fright,
In manner like a phantom vain,
Or vision of the night.

His blazing lamp shall disappear,
So shall he perish clean;
And in the place of his career
Shall never more be seen.

As he was closely fix'd to sin,
By love too, too sincere;
So sin, alas! shall unto him
As faithfully adhere.

For guilty marks, and ensigns bad,
Of his unbridled lust,
Continue his companions sad,
And fellows in the dust.

These morsels sweet shall bitter grow,
Consume his vital breath,
And follow him with dool and woe,
To th' other side of death.