These are eternal scourges of the age.
'Tis not enough that each terrific hand
Spreads desolation round a guilty land;
But, train'd to ill, and harden'd by its crimes,
Their pen relentless kills through future times.
Say ye, who search these records of the dead,
Who read huge works, to boast what ye have read:
Can all the real knowledge ye possess,
Or those (if such there are) who more than guess,
380