'Twas ere rude Hands had reap'd the waving Grain,
When Plenty triumph'd on the fertile Plain,
That to the Centre of a pleasant Down,
Where half was Pasture, half a plenteous Brown:
These Youths repair'd both emulous of Fame,
And rais'd an Altar to  Name,
With Heart elate and self-presuming Eye,
First to the Pile unhappy  drew nigh.
Choice was his Off'ring, yet no Sign appear'd,
No Flame was seen, nor Voice celestial heard:
Astonish'd stood the late presumptuous Man,
Then came his Brother with a trembling Lamb;
His God accepts the Sacrifice sincere;
The Flames propitious round the Slain appear;
The curling Smoke ascended to the Skies:
This  beheld, and roll'd his glowing Eyes.
Stung to the Soul, he with his frantick Hand
A Stone up-rooted from the yielding Sand,
Nor spoke — for Rage had stop'd his failing Tongue;
The heavy Death impetuous whirl'd along:
This  met — his Heart receiv'd the Wound;
Amaz'd he fell, and grasp'd the bloody Ground.
The gentle Spirit sprung to endless Day,
And left behind her Case of beauteous Clay;
Pale stood the Brother — to a Statue chill'd,
A conscious Horror through his Bosom thrill'd:
His frighted Eyes abhorr'd the Beams of Light,
And long'd to find a never-ceasing Night.