These are not subjects for the peaceful muse,
Nor will she stain her spotless theme with such;
Then most delighted, when she smiling sees
The whole mix'd animal creation round
Alive, and happy. 'Tis not joy to her,
This falsely chearful, barbarous game of death;
This rage of pleasure, which the restless youth
Awakes, impatient, with the gleaming morn;
When beasts of prey retire, that all night long,
Urg'd by necessity, had roam'd the dark;
As if their conscious ravage shun'd the light,
Asham'd. Not so the steady tyrant man,
Who with the thoughtless insolence of power
Inflam'd, beyond the most infuriate rage
Of the worst monster that e'er howl'd the waste,
For sport alone takes up the cruel tract,
Amid the beamings of the gentle days.
Upbraid us not, ye wolves! ye tygers fell!
For hunger kindles you, and lawless want;
But lavish fed, in Nature's bounty roll'd,
To laugh at anguish, and rejoice in blood,
Is what your horrid bosoms never knew.