With ra­di­ant beams the sun arose
On So­dom’s fat­ed tow­ers;
In plea­sure’s round, and false re­pose,
They spend the cheer­ful hours.

Lot’s warn­ing voice they mock­ing heard,
Their hearts, elate with pride,
No joy with­held, no dan­ger feared—
The pro­phet they de­ride.

In vain he pleads, Fly, sin­ner fly…
Behold de­struct­ion near!
Empty en­thu­si­ast, they re­ply,
And ri­di­cule his fear.

But sud­den o’er the trem­bling ground,
The heav’ns tre­men­dous lower;
And streams of fire and brim­stone round,
In tor­rents down­ward pour.

They scream…they fly…no hope re­mains—
Blaspheme—in flames e­xpire;
Lot, safe in Zoar a re­fuge gains—
A brand plucked from the fire.

Sinner, be­hold—the warn­ing take;
This mo­ment hear and fear:
For if the righ­teous scarce es­cape,
O where wilt thou ap­pear?