At tables piled with many a heap
Of ore from Earth’s dark entrails torn,[27]
The harpy brood their vigils keep
From dewy eve till rosy morn.
Hither the pamper’d landlords hie—
While shivering tenants pine for bread—
Transform’d to brutes in Circe’s stye,
To every Christian precept dead!
The prince, the peasant, and the peer,
The soldier, cit, and baron bold,