In plaintive murmurs, they bewail their fate,
And many an eager, wistful eye they cast,
Whene’er the turnkey opes, and shuts the gate.
For who to dull imprisonment a prey,
The pleasing thoughts of freedom e’er resign’d?
From home, from wife—from children—dragg’d away,
Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind;
For you, who traverse to and fro this shrine,
And lounge, and saunter, at your wonted rate,
If in some future chat, with arch design,