In vain, O St—d—y, thy proud forests spread;
In vain each gilded turret rears its head;
In vain thy Lord commands the streams to fall,
Extends the view, and spreads the smooth canal,
While guilt's black train each conscious walk invade,
And cries of orphans haunt him in the shade.
Mistaken man! by crimes to hope for fame?
Thy imag'd glory leads to real shame:
Is villainy self-hated? thus to raise
Upbraiding monuments of soul disgrace?
Succeeding times, and ages yet unborn,
Shall view the guilty scenes with honest scorn;
Disdain each beauty thy proud folly plann'd,
And curse the labours of oppression's hand.