XXIV.

What careth Man red-handed for His wrath? What bellowing beast so terrible as he, When boundless passions master him? His path Is more destructive than the stormy sea. His nostril is a furnace. Ominously Doth glare his bloodshot eye. Nor Beauty saves The virgin, nor grey hairs and tottering knee The reverend sire. Lust, rapine, murder waves A pirate flag o’er all, and hearths are turned to graves!