Job, Chapter xxvii. Paraphrased

Poor Hypocrite (though ne'er so rich), when God shall call
His double, his dissembling soul, how small,
How beggarly his biggest hopes will show!
Riches command no further than below.

When griefs like waves o'er one another roll
And overwhelm his quite-dejected soul,
When he lies groaning on a restless bed,
With a sad bleeding heart, and aching head
Brimfull of anguish and repeated pain,
He weeps and frames his parch'd lips to complain,
Breathes up to heaven a very earnest prayer--
Scarce dare he hope, yet dares he not despair--
But all his supplications mount in vain,
God will not hear, nor answer him again.

How can he turn religious, and adore
That God he so devoutly mock'd before?

I will the depths of Providence reveal;
Th' Almighty's methods will I not conceal.

Yet why should I suggest what your own heart,
Were it not vain, might, better far, impart?

On th' wicked's head this heavy fate shall come,
And this shall be from God th' oppressor's doom.

His sons, though more and lovelier they are
Than their decrepit father's silver hair,
Strong as the sons of Anak, bright and brave,
Shall shroud their pride in an untimely grave;
His daughters, though more beauteous every one
Than the seraphic spouse of Solomon,
A sisterhood as numerous and bright
As are the glorious stars that gild the night,--
A bloody cloud their glories shall eclipse;
Death shuts their killing eyes, their charming lips.
Though like a golden harvest they appear,
And every one a full, a laden ear,
Like olive plants amidst their friends be grown,
The sword shall reap, the sword shall hew them down.
The sword and eager famine shall devour
All they enjoy in one unhappy hour.

His progeny shall unlamented die,
Buried in black oblivion shall they lie,
Unpitied to the dust they shall return,
Nor shall one pious tear bedew their urn.

If he have silver plentiful as dust,
Gold pure as that of Ophir, both shall rust

Let him have caskets whose each orient gem
Vies with the walls o' th' new Jerusalem,
Raiment more gorgeous than the lily's hue
When every snowy fold is pearl'd with dew,
He's but the just man's steward all the while;
The just shall wear the raiment, part the spoil.

The house he builds, like that o' th' moth, shall be
Too weak against the wind's least battery;
Or, if it stand the brunt of wind and rain,
'Twill stagger at a thund'ring hurricane;
As tents, it may remove from land to land,
But on a solid basis cannot stand.

The rich man shall depart, but not in peace;
When he lies down, his horror shall increase
Just when he's ripe for vengeance and heaven's frown
Death, ah too irksome Death, shall shake him down.
Gather'd he shall not be by that kind hand
Which plucks the righteous to blest Canaan's land:
He opes his lids and surfeiteth his eyes
With gazing over all his vanities,
Till some ill chance o' th' sudden dims his sight
And leaves him lost in an eternal night.

VERSES 20, 21.

As mighty waters shall his terrors roar;
He's stolen away and shall be seen no more,
Hurried from his belovèd home, and tost
By th' East wind, fierce as that drown'd Pharaoh's host.

Jehovah, from whose hand he fain would flee,
Shall add more sting to his calamity:

And where his glass has but few sands to run,
His tragicomic life now almost done,
At the last act his deadliest shame shall be
To find an hissing for a Plaudite.