The triste entreaties of impassion’d grief,
The piteous tale of family distressed,
The stranger’s ruin, or the friend’s relief,
No more shall raise compassion in their breast.
For them no more the midnight rush shall burn,
Or wearied menial be detain’d from bed;
No wives expectant watch for their return,
Or anxious listen to each passing tread.
Oft do the purses of the victims fail,
Their fury oft on box and dice they wreak