Nor age's awe, nor sex's softness charm;
Nor law, nor feeling, wrest the blood-steep'd arm.
While, skill'd in ev'ry torture that can rend,
O'er gasping heaps exults the rav'ning fiend.
Mark, how in hellish wantonness, he calls
Yon trembling innocent—the sight appals!
The weeping sacrifice, with nervless pace,
Obeys the mandate—while his infant face
The butcher seizing, with infernal hold,
Fastens his gripe in lacerating fold;