Beneath the gibbet’s self perhaps is laid Some heart once pregnant with infernal fire; Hands that the sword of Nero might have sway’d, And ’midst the carnage tun’d th’ exulting lyre. Ambition to their eyes her ample page, Rich with such monstrous crimes, did n’er unroll; Chill Penury repress’d their native rage, And froze the bloody current of the soul. Full many a youth, fit for each horrid scene, The dark and sooty flues of chimnies bear; Full many a rogue is born to cheat unseen, And dies unhang’d for want of proper care. Some petty Chartres, that with dauntless breast Each call of worth or honesty withstood; Some mute, inglorious Wilmot[4] here may rest; Some * * * * * * *, guiltless of his steward’s blood. The votes of venal senates to command, The worthy man’s opinion to despise, To scatter mischiefs o’er a trusting land, And read their curses in a nation’s eyes, Their lot forbad; nor circumscrib’d alone Their groveling fortunes, but their crimes confin’d; Forbad with libels to insult the throne, And vilify the noblest of mankind. The struggling pangs of conscious guilt to hide, To bid defiance to all sense of shame; Their bleeding Country’s sorrow to deride, And heap fresh fuel on Sedition’s flame; To such high crimes, such prodigies of vice, Their vulgar wishes ne’er presum’d to soar; Content at wheel-barrows to cogg the dice, Or pick a pocket at a Play-house door. Yet e’en these humbler vices to correct, Old Tyburn lifts his triple front on high; Bridewell, with bloody whips and fetters deck’d, Frowns dreadful vengeance on the younger fry. Their name, their years, their birth and parentage, (Though doubtful all) the Ord’nary supplies; Points out what first debauch’d their tender age, And with what words each ripen’d felon dies. For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, When to the dreadful tree of death consign’d, But yearns to think upon the fatal day That first seduc’d to sin his pliant mind? No soul so callous but remorse may wring, No heart so hard but grief may teach to sigh; Contrition forces heartfelt tears to spring, And melts to tenderness the sternest eye. For him, the master of the pilfering herd, Whom certain punishment attends, though late; If, when his wretched carcase is interr’d, Some curious person should enquire his fate; Haply some hoary-headed thief may say, “Oft have I seen him with his lighted link “Guide some unwary stranger cross the way, “And pick his pocket on the kennel’s brink. “There, at the foot of yonder column stretch’d, “Where Seven Dials are exalted high, “He and his Myrmidons for hours have watch’d, “And pour’d destruction on each passer-by.