XLVI.

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.