As the slums where the outcasts of Babylon prowl,
Oh, the last trace of pity and ruth must depart
Ere the gloom of those alleys shall pass from my heart.
Yet it was not that squalor had shed o’er the spot
The stench of her stews and the reek of her rot;
’Twas not the grim presence of Death and Disease—
Oh, no! it was something more shocking than these.
’Twas that fiends—the familiars of Mammon—were here,
Who made every dear scene of extortion more dear,
And who felt no remorse, while they left unimproved,