And many an hideous engine grim,
For wrenching joint, and crushing limb,
By artist form’d, who deemed it shame
And sin to give their work a name.
They halted at a low-brow’d porch,
And Brent to Allan gave the torch,
While bolt and chain he backward roll’d,
And made the bar unhasp its hold.
They enter’d:—’twas a prison room
Of stern security and gloom,