A mighty race of ancient time
    Waxed arrogant in boastful pride;
  Debauched were they, and borne along
    On foul corruption’s loathsome tide,
  Till in their stiff-necked self-conceit
    They e’en the God of Heaven denied.

  At last Eternal Mercy turns
    To righteous judgment, swift and dire;
  He shakes the clouds; the mighty sword
    Flames in His hand, and in His ire
  He wields the roaring hurricane
    ’Mid murky gloom and flashing fire.

  Yet in His clemency He grants
    To penitence a brief delay,
  That they might burst the bonds of lust
    And put their vanities away;
  His sentence given, He waits awhile
    And stays the hand upraised to slay.

  To warn them of the wrath to come
    The Avenger in His mercy sent
  Jonah the seer; but,—­though he knew
    The threatening Judge would fain relent
  Nor wished to strike,—­towards Tarshish town
    The prophet’s furtive course was bent.

  As up the galley’s side he climbed,
    They loosed the dripping rope, and passed
  The harbour bar:  then on them burst
    The sudden fury of the blast;
  And when their peril’s cause they sought,
    The lot was on the recreant cast.

  The man whose guilt the urn declares
    Alone must die, the rest to save;
  Hurled headlong from the deck, he falls
    And sinks beneath the engulfing wave,
  Then, seized by monstrous jaws, is plunged
    Into a vast and living grave.

* * * * *

  At last the monster hurls him forth,
    As the third night had rolled away;
  Before its roar the billows break
    And lash the cliffs with briny spray;
  Unhurt the wondering prophet stands
    And hails the unexpected day.

  Thus turned again to duty’s path
    To Nineveh he swiftly came,
  Their lusts rebuked and boldly preached
    God’s judgment on their sin and shame;
  “Believe!” he cried, “the Judge draws nigh
    Whose wrath shall wrap your streets in flame.”

  Thence to the lofty mount withdrew,
    Where he might watch the smoke-cloud lower
  O’er blasted homes and ruined halls,
    And rest beneath the shady bower
  Upspringing in swift luxury
    Of twining tendril, leaf and flower.

  But when the guilty burghers heard
    The impending doom, a dull despair
  Possessed their souls; proud senators,
    Poor craftsmen, throng the highways fair;
  Pale youth with tottering age unites,
    And women’s wailing rends the air.

  A public fast they now decree,
    If they may thus Christ’s anger stay: 
  No food they touch:  each haughty dame
    Puts silken robes and gems away,
  In sable garbed, and ashes casts
    Upon her tresses’ disarray.

  In dark and squalid vesture clad
    The Fathers go:  the mourning crowd
  Dons rough attire:  in shaggy skins
    Enwrapped, fair maids their faces shroud
  With dusky veils, and boyish heads
    E’en to the very dust are bowed.