Now rest the noisy racket-playing cry, And rattling balls against the dreary wall; To them succeed the ruin-hurling die, And bawling Potmen’s never ceasing call. Within these narrow cells, in durance vile, Where lurid Vengeance holds its baleful reign, 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. Here too, in long captivity remain The hardy warrior, and the nobly brave, Who dar’d their Country’s battles to sustain Their honor’d Country’s LIBERTY to save But oh! despise not their ignoble toil, Their loss of Liberty and Life obscure, Nor proudly hear with a disdainful smile The dull complaint of the imprison’d poor. On those who boast of Heraldry and Pow’r Or all that Pomp and sordid wealth e’er gave, The angry storms of Fortune soon may lour A wretched Prison may precede the grave. Not ev’n can VIRTUE’S sacred name defend; For round the good, and near the bad await, The one t’afflict, the other to amend, The never-failing ministers of Fate. Perhaps within this sad abode may pine, A heart once pregnant with Celestial fire, Souls, that to warlike deeds do still incline, And hands, that still might wake the living lyre: But Liberty to them, by cruel fate, Is now denied the panting heart to warm; Chill Penury confines their low estate, And Life’s to them devoid of ev’ry charm. Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife, Within these hated walls do they remain; With patience drink the _bitter dregs_ of Life, And the dire load of misery sustain. Their hopes, their wishes, and the chance of fate, The place of certainty, or truth supply; They still would triumph o’er the proud one’s hate, Nor yet despairing wildly wish to die. For who to dumb forgetfulness a prey, A miserable being e’er resign’d, Left the dull precincts of the doleful day, Nor cast one longing, ling’ring look behind? Still on some breast does ev’ry soul rely, Some pious drops the closing eye requires, For _distant friends_ we breathe th’impassion’d sigh, To tears of SYMPATHY each wretch aspires. But here, entomb’d within this living grave, Too many sink beneath their wretched fate, No more have Friends the _pleasing pow’r_ to save, And long-delay’d assistance comes too late. While some, alas! neglected by each friend, The world despising, by the world forgot, With jovial riot their dull hours defend, And drown with sparkling wine their hapless lot.