Horrid!—I see thee far[[90]]—defac’d—
In fetters on a dreary waste,
With outstretch’d arms and bosom bare,
Appealing to the troubled air;
Yet taxing not the pelting storm;
But those, more cruel, who deform
Thy rich retreats, thy turf defile
With fence, and road, and uses vile;
Nor of the whole, which Nature gave,
Leave thee enough to make thy grave,