248 Thus to some desert plain, or old woodside, Dire night-hags come from far to dance their round; And o'er broad rivers on their fiends they ride, Or sweep in clouds above the blasted ground. 249 No help avails: for hydra-like, the fire Lifts up his hundred heads to aim his way; And scarce the wealthy can one half retire, Before he rushes in to share the prey. 250 The rich grow suppliant, and the poor grow proud; Those offer mighty gain, and these ask more: So void of pity is the ignoble crowd, When others' ruin may increase their store. 251 As those who live by shores with joy behold Some wealthy vessel split or stranded nigh; And from the rocks leap down for shipwreck'd gold, And seek the tempests which the others fly: 252 So these but wait the owners' last despair, And what's permitted to the flames invade; Even from their jaws they hungry morsels tear, And on their backs the spoils of Vulcan lade. 253 The days were all in this lost labour spent; And when the weary king gave place to night, His beams he to his royal brother lent, And so shone still in his reflective light. 254 Night came, but without darkness or repose,-- A dismal picture of the general doom, Where souls, distracted when the trumpet blows, And half unready, with their bodies come. 255 Those who have homes, when home they do repair, To a last lodging call their wandering friends: Their short uneasy sleeps are broke with care, To look how near their own destruction tends. 256 Those who have none, sit round where once it was, And with full eyes each wonted room require; Haunting the yet warm ashes of the place, As murder'd men walk where they did expire. 257 Some stir up coals, and watch the vestal fire, Others in vain from sight of ruin run; And, while through burning labyrinths they retire, With loathing eyes repeat what they would shun. 258 The most in fields like herded beasts lie down, To dews obnoxious on the grassy floor; And while their babes in sleep their sorrows drown, Sad parents watch the remnants of their store. 259 While by the motion of the flames they guess What streets are burning now, and what are near; An infant waking to the paps would press, And meets, instead of milk, a falling tear. 260 No thought can ease them but their sovereign's care, Whose praise the afflicted as their comfort sing: Even those whom want might drive to just despair, Think life a blessing under such a king. 261 Meantime he sadly suffers in their grief, Out-weeps an hermit, and out-prays a saint: All the long night he studies their relief, How they may be supplied, and he may want.