The town has tinged the country; and the stain Appears a spot upon a vestal’s robe, The worse for what it soils. The fashion runs Down into scenes still rural, but alas, Scenes rarely graced with rural manners now. Time was when in the pastoral retreat The unguarded door was safe; men did not watch To invade another’s right, or guard their own. Then sleep was undisturbed by fear, unscared By drunken howlings; and the chilling tale Of midnight murder was a wonder heard With doubtful credit, told to frighten babes But farewell now to unsuspicious nights, And slumbers unalarmed. Now, ere you sleep, See that your polished arms be primed with care, And drop the night-bolt. Ruffians are abroad, And the first larum of the cock’s shrill throat May prove a trumpet, summoning your ear To horrid sounds of hostile feet within. Even daylight has its dangers; and the walk Through pathless wastes and woods, unconscious once Of other tenants than melodious birds, Or harmless flocks, is hazardous and bold. Lamented change! to which full many a cause Inveterate, hopeless of a cure, conspires. The course of human things from good to ill, From ill to worse, is fatal, never fails. Increase of power begets increase of wealth; Wealth luxury, and luxury excess; Excess, the scrofulous and itchy plague That seizes first the opulent, descends To the next rank contagious, and in time Taints downward all the graduated scale Of order, from the chariot to the plough. The rich, and they that have an arm to check The licence of the lowest in degree, Desert their office; and themselves, intent On pleasure, haunt the capital, and thus To all the violence of lawless hands Resign the scenes their presence might protect. Authority itself not seldom sleeps, Though resident, and witness of the wrong. The plump convivial parson often bears The magisterial sword in vain, and lays His reverence and his worship both to rest On the same cushion of habitual sloth. Perhaps timidity restrains his arm, When he should strike he trembles, and sets free, Himself enslaved by terror of the band, The audacious convict whom he dares not bind. Perhaps, though by profession ghostly pure, He, too, may have his vice, and sometimes prove Less dainty than becomes his grave outside In lucrative concerns. Examine well His milk-white hand. The palm is hardly clean— But here and there an ugly smutch appears. Foh! ’twas a bribe that left it. He has touched Corruption. Whoso seeks an audit here Propitious, pays his tribute, game or fish, Wildfowl or venison, and his errand speeds.