In his torn mouth the wounded passage finds,
And thro' the mangled cheeks his fingers winds!
Convolv'd in pangs, that rev'rend form survey
Beneath his country's wars and commerce grey,
Now writhes his tortur'd frame! The scourges ply—
And from the lash the quiv'ring morsels fly.
Invention next, from her exhaustless stores,
O'er the bare bones the venom'd lotion pours,
Whose acrid salts in searching conflict dart,
With pungent anguish bathing ev'ry, smart: