When boundless passions master him? His path
Is more destructive than the stormy sea.
His nostril is a furnace. Ominously
Doth glare his bloodshot eye. Nor Beauty saves
The virgin, nor grey hairs and tottering knee
The reverend sire. Lust, rapine, murder waves
A pirate flag o’er all, and hearths are turned to graves!
XXV.
Oh, meek-eyed Pity! Tenderness of Soul!