Or to the shrouds ingloriously bound,
They feel the lash in many a smarting wound.
Nor dares resentment lift th' avenging hand—
With sinking spirits, and a frame unmann'd—
For, now (the meal in stinted boon supply'd,
And cheering bev'rage purposely deny'd.)
The vital current flags—the sinews faint,
Th' exhausted voice scarce breathes the weak complaint:
A torpid languor seizes ev'ry vein,
And the soul sinks beneath th' oppressive chain.