T' avenge whose wrongs they left the burning plain,
They turn insatiate; and with recreant rage,
On the chain'd sufferers wars atrocious wage.
Soon as umbrageous night on raven-wings
O'er the sad freight her dewy opiates flings,
Pack'd in close misery, the reeking crowd,
Sweltering in chains, pollute the hot abode.
In painful rows with studious art comprest,
Smoking they lie, and breathe the humid pest:
Moisten'd with gore, on the hard platform ground,