Not from a love to God, but fear of hell, Torn suddenly from all his pleasant things; How fiercely keen each sad reflection stings: From all that gay deluded mortals please, His days of feasting, and his nights of ease: Drove out to sea by a tremendous gale, Without a compass, anchor, helm, or sail: Where distant from the beatific shore, He sinks in dismal waves to rise no more. Nor is it better with the wretch who dies A faithless priest, or siren friend may tell The stubborn sceptic may refuse assent Till flaming justice his damnation seal, May laugh at hell, and wish all priestcraft there So did Voltaire but when his death drew near, |