But all unconscious of the coming doom,[70]

The feast, the song, the revel here abounds;

Strange modes of merriment the hours consume,

Nor bleed these patriots with their country's wounds:

Nor here War's clarion, but Love's rebeck[71] sounds;[cl]

Here Folly still his votaries inthralls;

And young-eyed Lewdness walks her midnight rounds:[cm]

Girt with the silent crimes of Capitals,

Still to the last kind Vice clings to the tott'ring walls.