Nor half thy Triumph this: cast from brute Fields
Into the Haunts of Men thy ruthless eye.
There buxom Plenty never turns her horn;
The Grace and Virtue of exterior Life,
No clean Convenience reigns; even Sleep itself,
Least delicate of Powers, reluctant there
Lays on the Bed impure his heavy head.
Thy horrid Walk! dead, empty, unadorn'd,
See Streets whose Echos never know the voice
Of chearful Hurry, Commerce many-tongue'd,
And Art mechanic at his various task
Fervent employ'd. Mark the desponding Race,
Of Occupation void, as void of Hope;
Hope the glad Ray, glanc'd from ETERNAL GOOD,
That Life enlivens, and exalts it's Powers,
With views of Fortune — Madness all to them!
By Thee relentless seiz'd their better Joys,
To the soft aid of cordial Airs they fly,
A kind Oblivion breathing o'er their Woes,
And Love and Music melt their Souls away.
From feeble  see how rash
Trembling, the Ballance snatches; and her Sword,
Fearful himself, to venal Ruffians gives.
See where GOD'S Altar nursing Murder stands,
With the red touch of dark Assassins stain'd.