Where awful Ruin hovers ’round the pile,
Th’ inglorious captives ev’ry grief sustain.
The breezy call of incense-breathing morn
Gives not its wonted joy unto their shed,
The cock’s shrill clarion, or the echoing horn
No more entices from their lowly bed.
Here dwells the rustic, who with thoughtless zeal
The petty tyrant of his fields defied,
Doom’d, by some lordly Villain’s frown, to feel
The tedious malice of hard hearted Pride.